


The Exceptional Case of John Watson

by Ashildr



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashildr/pseuds/Ashildr
Summary: John Watson, has been dealing with anxiety all his life.  Afghanistan only made it worse. After meeting Sherlock Holmes, he found his flashbacks relating to one of Holmes' cases.





	1. The Baker Street Exclusive

**Author's Note:**

> _Hiya,_   
>  _So first off, I want to let you all know that this is my first return to fan fiction since 2012. In fact, its really my return to writing period._   
>  _There was a traumatic event and I've not been happy with anything I've written since._   
>  _Presently the only person I trust to help me with editing is in the hospital. Hope its not too disappointing._   
>  _I promise you, chapter two is ALREADY shaping up better than this one. ___
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Look forward to Wednesday postings.

John Watson walked quietly through Hyde park.  The sun peeking out from behind the clouds warmed the air slightly.

  He stopped for a moment, letting the warmth fall on his face.  For half a moment, he almost missed the unbearable heat of Afghanistan.

 

Both his shoulders were giving him grief today, walking with a cane is never easy, especially when all one’s weight is put into the joints of the arm holding the device.

  As he resumed his walk to Ella’s office, John looked at the people around him, a young woman with a screaming baby in her lap, looked about ready to cry, her eyes were red rimmed with deep purplish bags just below them.  

  He considered telling her that it was just colic, with probiotics and Simethicone, the child would calm, and likely sleep.  He didn’t.

 

Four teenage boys with skateboards rushed around him, calling one another names and giving John himself a rather scathing look for daring walk on the sidewalk.  One boy’s front wheel caught a stone and threw him.  A tumultuous crack resounded as the skate flew out and hit the ground.  Before, John would have run to check the boy, make sure nothing was broken, suggested the A&E, but this instinct was sorely dulled by the sudden rise in his heart rate, he began to have trouble breathing, the hand on his cane was gripped so tight, he had begun to lose feeling in his fingers.  

 

The three boys still standing laughed and helped their mate up, his skateboard, well and truly totaled.  But none of this mattered to John, he was suddenly back in his own head, rushing to the side of a soldier hit in hail fire.  _He grabbed the man’s shoulders, apologising profusely for causing further unnecessary pain._ William C Murray _, the man’s tags read.  “William, I’m sorry, John yelled over the sounds of guns and screaming, he felt the crevices around the kevlar vest beneath his patient’s fatigues.  No damage to the trunk.  He removed the soldier’s weapon from his arms and spotted the injury.  It would be an easy clean up so long as there was no shrapnel of metal or bone._

_“Bill.”  The man hissed through his teeth.  “I’m Bill.”_

_“Good to know you, Bill, I’m Captain John Watson, Medic._

 

_The sound crashed like thunder, and John stopped breathing.  Overhead fire went off rapidly, he pulled himself and Bill into as deep an alcove as he could find.  Then he felt it.  Something had torn straight through him. Everything became very quiet, there was blood dripping from him.  He noticed, Bill’s eyes had become very wide, he dragged his weapon back and hitched it up as a sniper might.  Taking several shots up to the rooftops of the building around them.  Everything happened very slowly, John began to fall._

 

  _“_ Sir?  Sir, is everything okay?  Sir?”  An older gentleman was looking down at John.

 

  “Yes.  Sorry.  Yes.  I’m fine.”  His breath was short, his heart was still racing.  

 

  “Don’t seem too fine to me, young man.  Just home then?”  The older man pulled a chain from around his neck and flashed his dog tags.  A veteran.  “It’ll get better, son.  You just need to find yourself something to do, or someone to love.”

 

   “Yes.  Of course.  I’m sorry.  The skateboard… just…”  He couldn’t articulate, but the older man nodded, a knowing look in his eye.

  

“Had a neighbor with an old Ford that would idle and backfire right outside my house when I came home.”  The older man stretched out a weathered hand, John grabbed his cane, and between the two of them, he managed to get up off the ground.  “As I said son, it’ll get better.”  He smiled kindly and walked away with a small salute and a wave.

 

John stood and watched the man retreat until he saw nothing, catching his breath more than anything.  He had doubts about it getting better.  He had suffered anxiety all his life, rarely if ever, had he been treated for it.  He even lied about it in order to join the Army.  Lately though, everything was a trigger.

 

He pulled out the phone Harry had given him when he got home and called Ella’s office.  He was already late, to sit and not talk to her.  “Dr. Thompson’s Office.”  said a sweet voice on the other end.

 

 “This is John Watson.  I have an appointment at three.  I’m going to have to go ahead and cancel it.”  Ella was a nice enough woman, and her staff was always painfully sympathetic, but John felt he wasn’t being helped with platitudes of “Things will get better.” and “How’s the blog?”

 

  “Oh John, hi.  So, you aren’t coming in?  Is everything okay?”

 

 _No, nothing is okay._ “Yeah, fine.  Just had a bit of a problem, and just… I can’t come in.  Sorry.”

 

  “Oh gosh, well, we have you down for Thursday, still.  So you call and let us know if you need to cancel then.  Alright?”

 

  “Yeah, will do.  Thanks.”

 

He clicked the phone off and glanced dejectedly at the inscription on the back.  Under any other circumstances, he might have called Harry, but right now, she was the last thing he needed.  He shoved the phone back into his pocket, and looked around, wondering where the nearest cup of tea was.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the day and been a fast whirl of strange and unexpected coincidences.  Meeting Mike Stamford, as he raced as quickly as he could for a cuppa.  

 

Touring the newly modernized classrooms and labs at Bart’s.  But the strangest, most unexpected thing had been meeting Sherlock Holmes.  He was quite young, by the look of him, well dressed, extremely well spoken, brash, annoying, amazing…

 

 He had seemed to know everything about John from the moment he looked up from the microscope.  “Afghanistan or Iraq.”  

  Everything else was a blur.  He was all limbs and eyes, and cheekbones, and dark curly hair that seemed to have a mind of it’s own.   And despite being ever so slightly afraid of him, John couldn’t be bothered to look away, he didn’t even hear himself argue the point that they didn’t know one another, and suddenly they were moving in.

 

  Sherlock’s keen eyes looked him over once, his mouth told him everything John already knew about himself.  

 

“The name, is Sherlock Holmes.  The address is 221B Baker Street.”

 

 

**Chapter One**

**The Baker Street Exclusive**

 

 

After so many months of quietly milling through life, considering and yet never acting upon that itch that would just take him out of it all, John found himself almost enjoying the time spent with Sherlock.  Despite his being, infernally lazy when it came to getting the shopping, or doing the washing up, Sherlock made up for it by making John’s life interesting.  It was case after case of murder and intrigue, Just trying to keep up with Sherlock seemed to making John feel smarter, if not a little smug.

  After a long cases, usually involving running all over London, catching murderers, and thieves, John always felt exhausted, but he loved watching Sherlock as he bounced about, the adrenaline still in his system, ready and raring for the next adventure.  It was the only time John could ever get him to eat, or sleep.  And sometimes, albeit very rarely, he’d even come down enough to just watch television for thirty minutes.  

 

 It was the strangest symbiosis.  Two utterly different organisms living in a mutually beneficial environment.  John needed the distraction that was provided by Sherlock, and Sherlock need a sounding board, as was provided by John.  In this way, they had grown to very much rely upon, and enjoy each other’s company.

 

After two months living at 221B, John’s physical pain only flared up in the morning, and after the odd take down of a suspect.  It wasn’t anything his couldn’t handle with a couple paracetemol.  

 The nightmares and anxiety attacks had not stopped.  John found the more time he and Sherlock spent around a body, the worse the nightmares would be.

   He would run himself ragged, and still stay up, listening to Sherlock explain whatever mad experiment he was running, or he’d listen to him play the violin for hours on end, just to avoid the inevitable.

 

_________________________________________________

 

It had been a particularly fascinating case, four bodies, one room.  There was no carbon monoxide leak, no injury,  just bodies.  Sherlock flitted around each one, looking at every angle, seeing every detail.  John was on sparkling form, noting certain physical characteristics to the texture of each victim’s skin.  “It’s snake venom.”  He had stated.  Sherlock took a set of gloves and carefully cut the forearm of each person and squeezed.  A thick coagulated almost black substance was pushed out.

 Sherlock looked up to praise John’s deduction, and saw that he was tugging at the bottom of his coat almost obsessively, his brow furrowed, and his breathing  rapid and uneven. 

 He had never seen John react this way. 

 

“So we’re looking for a snake?”  Lestrade looked at Sherlock, and cocked one graying eyebrow.

 

“Or perhaps just the venom.  Can’t say what kind of snake venom it is, but I’m sure toxicolo…”

 

“Afghan pit viper”  John muttered.  “Seen it before.”

 

“We’ll have it tested anyway.  Not to discount your theory _John_.  But I’d rather be sure of what we’re looking for than just assume.  Looks about the same as an adder venom response to me.”  Anderson announced.

 

  Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off John, and either didn’t hear, or didn’t deign to respond to Anderson’s stupidity.  

 

“Yes, well.  That being done.  I don’t think I’ve given John the chance to eat today.  Look’s like he might keel over at any moment.” Sherlock stood, shoved his gloves into Anderson’s hands, grabbed John’s arm and gently lead him away from the crime scene.

 “What is it?”  He asked once away from prying ears.

 

“Hmm?”  John was still distracted.  His pulse, Sherlock felt, was erratic.  

 

“You’re tachycardic, your breathing is inconsistent, your pupils are dilated… this is a stress response.”

 

“To be technical, Sherlock, it’s an anxiety response, but you are correct.  You always are.”

 

“Why?”  Sherlock felt genuinely curious, and for some reason it seemed to piss John off.

  He glared crossly at his flatmate before ripping his arm out of Sherlock’s grip.  “Because it happens, Sherlock.  It’s a problem, and I can handle it.  Now go back to your crime scene, I’m going home.”

 

Sherlock didn’t want to let John out of his sight, but the shorter man could be obscenely fast when trying to escape.  He stood rooted to his spot momentarily, before turning on his heel and returning to give Anderson a piece of his mind.

 


	2. The Ophidian Liquidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John's flashbacks prove useful to the case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As last time, self-edited

John felt awful.  It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.  He’d just asked the wrong question.

 

_Two men were brought in on stretchers, both screaming in agony.  John looked them over, their skin was becoming waxy and bloated.  “What happened to these men?”  He asked the medics._

_“No clue doc, they just started screaming like this, out of nowhere.”  With precision speed John began cutting and removing clothing, looking over the soldier’s bodies for wounds, it was clear to him that some kind of venom was at play, but there were no puncture wounds anywhere on the bodies._

_“What were they doing before the incident?”_

_“No clue sir, we just heard them screaming and went to help.”_

_“Go, fast.  Find anyone who might have seen what they were doing.  Check where you found them.  I need to know everything!”_

 

_Both soldiers were given a high dose of anticoagulant and a sedative._

_“Captain Watson, report.”  John Snapped a salute, and dissolved into explanation._

_“Both soldiers presented with excruciating pain, upon physical inspection, there are no injuries.  We tried to take blood only to find it highly coagulated.  My concern, sir, is that there are no puncture marks on either soldier.  It’s clearly venom of some sort, but without knowing what creature provided that venom, I cannot administer an anti-venom.”_

 

_“So what are our options?”_

 

_“Right now, the only thing I can do is provide a constant intravenous supply of Heparin. It can only help for a short time.  Without anti-venom, these men will be dead by morning.”_

 

John made his way up the steps and into the flat, he heard Mrs. Hudson below busting about, clearly making tea based on the sounds of clinking china.  He hoped she wouldn’t come up.  He’s already lashed out at Sherlock, he would only hate himself more if he did so with Mrs. Hudson.

  He sat in his chair and dropped his head into his hands.  He considered momentarily taking a shower, when he heard the front door open.  

 

“John?”  Sherlock was bounding up the stairs two at a time.  John tensed, he knew he would have to apologise for his overreaction.

 

“Living room.” John’s voice registered quietly, but he knew Sherlock would hear him.

 

“So.  Not good?” Sherlock asked.  He had taken to this inquiry when he was questioning himself, or his actions.

 

 “Not your fault Sherlock.  I overreacted, I’m sorry.”  John smiled tightly, taking a deep shuddering breath.

 

 “What happened?”  Sherlock asked “Based on your reaction, and diagnosis, I’m guessing you saw something similar in Afghanistan.”

 

“Two men, two soldiers.  Came into the infirmary, screaming like they’d lost their legs. No injury, no puncture wounds, but their blood was coagulating at a rapid pace.  We didn’t have the necessary equipment to find what venom was affecting them, we couldn’t find a single creature near or in the barracks.  By half three in the morning both men were dead.  I did nothing.”

 

“It’s not like you could just administer a blanket anti-venom, John.  I’m sure you did everything you could.”

 

This wasn’t Sherlock.  Sherlock would tell him to stop being an idiot, of course he could have sent samples off to a local siege hospital for testing.

 

“The thing is, John.  I am almost positive that this was murder.  And there is every possibility that this case, and yours might be connected!”

 

_“Was it murder, Captain Watson?”_

 

“What makes you think it was murder?” John all but whispers.

 

“No wounds, no puncture marks, toxins congealing blood and tissue.  The only way that venom could have entered the bodies what for them to have digested it!  Four person dinner party, take out in the kitchen…”

 

  John’s eye’s widened.  “Sherlock, if these cases are connected, then there’s a \ soldier out there killing his own.”

 

“Remembering something?”  

 

“The soldiers had been found in the barracks-“  John paused, thinking back.

 

_“Sir, we’ve not found anything in the barracks.”_

 

_“What about elsewhere, anything out of sorts anywhere on base?”_

 

_“No, sir.  There are no snakes, scorpions, spiders, or other venomous species to be found.  The mess hall was unlocked but we found nothing there either.”_

 

_“Was in murder, Captain Watson?”  Sholto asked from behind._

 

_John and Corporal Hayes snapped to salute and were released by the Major._

 

_“There’s nothing to say what it was, Major.  Two men are dead, and we have no leads as to what killed them.”_

 

“- But the mess hall was unlocked.  The mess hall was never to be unlocked unless meals were being served.”

 

Sherlock draped himself dramatically over his chair and steepled his hands beneath his chin.

 “So our common thread, is communal food.  Who would have had access to the mess hall?  Who could have unlocked it?”

 

“There was a constant rotation, but the keys were turned in at the end of meals.”  John stared as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as he hummed.  Clearly deep in thought.

 

Ten minutes passed, with nothing uttered between them.  Sherlock showed no signs of stepping out of his mind palace now.  Shaken though he was, John felt the distinct need to wash this entire day off him.  As he stood to make his way to the bathroom, Sherlock softly spoke, his eye still shut.  “If you remember any names.  Write them down.  We’ll visit Mycroft tomorrow.”

 

John nodded and slowly made his way to the shower.  He turned the water as hot as it would go before stripping off his clothes.  He looked into the mirror to the furrowed scar on his shoulder, sighed and stepped into the scalding spray of water.

 

——————————————

 

 

  The wind had picked up that night, causing the house to creak and groan around them.  John had been laying in bed, fighting the urge to fall asleep, listening to the sounds outside his room.  Sherlock was lurking below, John heard the sounds of glass slides clicking into the microscope, a whirring noise he couldn’t identify, and the occasional mumble.  

  It seemed odd at the time, that John found Sherlock’s case behavior almost relaxing.  He could count on the small noises, and often, a small violin concert. 

 

Slowly he drifted off…

 

_“PULL BACK!” a voice yelled much too near.  “WATSON  AND MURRAY  ARE DOWN, WE NEED TRANSPORT!  Hang on Captain, we’ll get you out of here.”_

_A sharp pressure was applied to John’s shoulder, he cried out._

_“God, there’s too much blood! Murray did you see what happened?”_

 

_“Hit from behind, went clean through, he was bent over me, so I think it may have hit his leg too.”  Murray himself was gasping as he spoke._

 

_A radio buzzed with static, John couldn’t hear what was said, the man who called for for help cussed and provided coordinates.  “Dammit Moran, just get transport over here before our medic bleeds out!”_

 

_Was it that bad?_

 

_A large explosion shook around the trio, the young Sergeant Reed Noble jostled John, dropping him to the ground.  He couldn’t breathe, the dust in the air, and the acrid smoke filled his lungs when he wasn’t screaming.  With every passing second the pain worsened until everything went black._

 

“JESUS FUCK!!”  John yelled, as he bolted upright, coughing and trying to breathe.

 

“John?”  frantic footsteps were running up the stairs, his door flew open.  Sherlock was wide-eyed and peering around the room.  His violin was in hand, but the bow was nowhere to be seen.

John still wasn’t breathing, what air he could drag into his lungs screeched in a loud wheeze.  “JOHN!”

 

Sherlock was dragging him from the bed in mere seconds, throwing John’s arms over his head in an effort to open up his lungs.  He pulled away, one hand clawing at his shoulder painfully.

 

“It’s okay John, it was just a dream.  Everything is fine, I swear!  You’re home.  London, Baker Street!”

 

“Baker Street.” John rasped, nodding his head.  He knew.  Sherlock was there, he knew he wasn’t in Afghanistan.  

 That knowledge didn’t help just then.

 


	3. Brother Knows Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft and John bandy about a couple of familiar names in league with the case(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****_Dedicated to the Butterfly on my shoulder, my Bethan. Today is four years exactly since we lost you, and every moment still plagues me. I write for you now baby sister, since we can't do it together_
> 
>  
> 
> I'm thrilled with the response to the story thus far, and I'm really glad you seem to like it. As I'm writing I feel like it's just getting better and better, despite the copious amounts of angst.  
> If you guys see any spelling or grammar problems I've missed, please let me know. Thank you all!  
> Also please lend a hand to those in need for a small price, and get to know one of the single most amazing people who ever graced my life.
> 
> US: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/352072
> 
> UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Flutterbys-Final-Kiss-Bethan-Pierce-ebook/dp/B00FTA4DG8  
> ₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

 What little sleep John had managed had not put him in the best of moods to meet with Mycroft.  He knew the best way of sussing out certain information regarding a possible rogue soldier, was to straighten out the time lines, who served on the same base, at the same time, who was recently released and could have committed the murders.

 

 Lestrade had called early that morning, to both apologise for the night before, and confirm the venom had in fact been from an Afghan Pit Viper, and that it was the wine the victims were drinking that had been laced.

  Sherlock had ranted at him about Anderson’s inability to observe and accept John’s knowledge on the matter, and insisted rather vehemently that “ _that imbecile_ ” be directly removed from the case, besides that, _Molly_ was a _far_ better forensic pathologist than Anderson could ever hope to be.

 

 Greg agreed that Molly would be far more agreeable all around, but she was however a morgue technician at Bart’s and not a forensic pathologist for NSY

 

“It’s not like she doesn’t live for moonlighting.  Give her the bodies, she could tell more in one look than Anderson did all night.” 

 

“Listen, Sherlock, believe me when I tell you, I’d rather listen to Molly Hooper than Anderson nine times out of ten, but it’s just not possible.  The MET needs to finish their crime scene analysis, before we can hand the bodies over for autopsy.  Then and only then can we give her the keys.”  Even over the loud speaker on Sherlock’s phone, John could tell that Greg was worn out, Sherlock’s continued arguments wouldn’t make much difference at this point.  

 

“That’s alright, Greg.  I’ll try to make sure Sherlock follows protocol.  Go home, get some rest.  You sound knackered.”  Sherlock scowled at John’s interruption before immediately hanging up the phone.

 

“John,”

 

“No, Sherlock - this time we have to do it by the book.  Especially if we’re involving your brother.  This could be very bad news for everyone, especially the Army.  One slight miscalculation could be very very bad.”

 

An irritating buzz from downstairs signaled Mycroft’s arrival.  Mrs. Hudson opened the door and shooed him upstairs with the promise of tea and biscuits.  “I hardly think I’ll be staying that long, Mrs. Hudson.” his nasally voice carried all the way to the siting room, where the very fidgety Sherlock chose to grab his violin and began to play.

 

  “You’re not going to be able to get much out of this if you won’t compose _yourself,_ Sherlock.”  John said calmly.  He had no more desire to speak to Mycroft than Sherlock at this point.

 

“The good doctor is right, for a change.  Now put that thing away and tell me why I have been _summoned_.”  Mycroft simply walked in with no invitation issued, leaning casually on his trusty umbrella for what John always assumed was dramatic effect.

 

Sherlock continued, rather annoyingly to play his violin and stare out the window, leaving it to John to fill Mycroft in on the happening with the venom, both cases.

 

“So I assume you’re asking me to look into recent discharges who served at the same time you did, is this correct, Doctor Watson?”

 

“If it’s at all possible.  I have a short list of names.  Those whom I recall being a little less than brothers in arms, not really team players.”

 

“Would Sebastian Moran be on this short list?”

 

John balked.  Moran had more or less been the top of the list.  He was known as an expert marksman, but shared no compassion for his fellow servicemen.  He’d been the cause for more sutures than most insurgent attacks during John’s time.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.  Three months ago Moran was court-marshaled for behavior unfitting of an officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Army, after an argument broke out regarding _friendly fire_.  Rounds discharged from his weapon were dug out of the back of several of our own.”  Mycroft shifted his weight and glanced momentarily at his brother’s back.

  “We were trying to keep an eye on him, but he slipped our surveillance.”

 

“He was a marksman.  What reason would a sniper have to resort to something as petty as poison?”  Sherlock’s voice rang out, loud enough to be heard over his violin.  It was clear from his tone that he found the matter to be entirely ridiculous.

 

“He isn’t exactly a man of principal, Sherlock.  I had a patient come in to the infirmary with a cracked skull, courtesy of Moran’s _fists_.”  John shook his head.  “It always surprised me, each new case provided by that man.  I wondered how he lasted as long as he did.  There’s something more to this, more to him.”

 

  “You’re correct again, Doctor Watson.  Sebastian Moran is a known associate of vast criminal circuit.  He’s been in contact with certain members, not to be named.”

 

The violin had suddenly gone silent. Sherlock was stock still.  “Moriarty.”

 

Mycroft’s head spun so fast, John was concerned about whiplash.  “How do you know that name?” He growled.

 

Sherlock said nothing, spinning around dramatically and racing to his bedroom, before any other questions could be asked.  John shivered in his seat, Mycroft’s eye now on him.  “Doctor Watson, what does Sherlock know of James Moriarty?”

 

“Ah, is that his name?  We don’t know much, to be honest.  The cabby, Geoff Hope.  He mentioned the name Moriarty.  Stating that he was Sherlock’s _fan_ , and his… _sponsor._ Moriarty paid him, to kill those four people.  Had he succeeded in killing Sherlock that night, I think he would have been set.”  John was wringing his fingers.

 

  “John, this is very important.  If James Moriarty ever contacts my brother again.  I need to know, immediately.”  Mycroft looked suddenly very worried, glancing in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

 

  “What do you know, Mycroft?”

 

  “Nothing I can say.  Keep and eye out for Sherlock.  Moriarty will work to break him in more ways than one.”

 

With that cryptic line, Mycroft left, with almost as much flourish as had his brother.

 

  _“Sir, I don’t understand why Colonel Moran has not been court-marshaled.  I’ve sewn up more men, beaten by him, than I have men injured in actual battle.”_

 

_“Captain, I appreciate your concern.  But Colonel Moran is an asset to this company.”  Sholto sighed, Moran was no favorite of his._

 

_“Private Mitchell may have permanent brain damage.  How is that an asset?  He is putting the entire company out of commission, one soldier at a time.  He is uncontrolled, and unfiltered, sir.”_

 

_“The orders come from well higher than myself, Watson.  There is very little I can do.”_

 

_“If we can’t do anything about Moran, then I’m going to need two more medics.  Basic first aid, and suturing at least.  My skills are better focused at the life or death cases.  I can’t keep pausing to clean up the Colonel’s messes.”_

 

_“I’ll see what I can find for you, Captain Watson.”_

 

_“Thank you Major.”_

 

_John saluted, and left the office.._

 

 


	4. Torment of Morpheus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is brazenly impolite, driving a very exhausted, and angry John out for "fresh air"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Surprise!  
>  Happy Winter Solstice friends! This is my holiday gift to you. Two chapters in 12 hours!! I hope you all enjoy this little bit of filler. Happy holidays all. _

  The case pressed on, Sherlock grew increasingly more excited, while John just felt ill.  There was absolutely nothing to tie Sebastian Moran to the venom murders.  There was nothing to even suggest he was in London, or indeed, alive at all.

  Sherlock had mused that perhaps Moran’s escapades in Afghanistan had been a selling point for Moriarty.  Perhaps Moran was a new hit man like Geoff Hope.

  John disagreed.  Moran wouldn’t have to sell himself to someone like that.  He would actively volunteer.

 

 The arguments would go on and on, until one of the both of them just lapsed into complete silence.  

 

John had taken to Sherlock’s hours, barely sleeping, which made him slow, the exhaustion was such that even ordering takeaway was too much effort, so neither he nor Sherlock ate more the the few biscuits Mrs. Hudson would bring up when she felt the need for company over tea.

 

 “When was the last time you slept?”  Sherlock asked.

 

 “When was the last time _you_ slept?”

 

 “Irrelevant.  I don't require as much sleep as…”

 

 “As what Sherlock?  _Normal_ people?”  John was irritated, it was nothing new.  Ever since the night Sherlock barged in after a nightmare, sleep had pretty much become a taboo subject.

 

 “Yes, if you prefer.  You however, haven’t slept in at least four days. While you may not be entirely _normal_ , you still require more sleep than you have been getting.”  

 

“We’ve discussed this Sherlock.  It’s a problem, but I’m handling it.”  John nursed his tea, wishing there were a drop of brandy to add to it.

 

 “We have not directly discussed your sleeping patterns, John, and if you’ll forgive my belligerence, you’re not handling it either.”

 

 _“Sherlock…”_ the tone was a warning.  John was bypassing irritation and diving nose first into anger.

 

“It’s only that you always tell me that I should sleep more.  And you’ve not slept anymore than I have.”

 

“Enough, Sherlock!” John slammed his mug on the chair side table and stood.  “My sleep structure, and psychoses are not up for discussion.  Drop it!”

 

 “I think you should go back to your psychologist.”

 

 John’s face turned beet red, he sputtered angrily, having no words.  This infuriating bastard never knew when to shut the fuck up.  Had John been a lesser man, he might have thrown a punch. 

  Instead, he rose from his chair and walked to the door.

 

“John, where are you going?”

 

“Out.  Don’t follow.”

 

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

 

 

 

Sherlock had no intention of following John that afternoon, but concern, and curiosity got the better of him.  He immediately threw on his Belstaff and wrapped a scarf around his neck, quietly following John as a stalker might.

  He wasn’t going anywhere in particular.  Just meandering.  He stopped occasionally and stared blankly into a window display for few minutes before carrying on.

 

He was so obstinately unobservant, that Sherlock felt certain John wouldn’t notice him even if he yelled his name.  

 

An hour passed, and Sherlock began to notice John slowing down.  His foot falls uneven, a slight stagger.  The anger had passed, the exhaustion was kicking in.

  Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text.

 

**Picking up Thai.  Coming home? SH**

 

John stopped and read the message.  He stood still so long, Sherlock felt certain he probably couldn’t even see the words.

_Ding_

 

**Not hungry.  Home soon.**

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, concerned.  He wished John would take a cab, but he knew it’s wasn’t a preferred method of travel.

  There was a Thai Garden down the road.  It wasn’t the best food, but it would fit Sherlock’s needs.

 

**Going to Thai Garden on York, meet and share a cab home? SH**

 

He looked up and saw John glancing about, perhaps seeking out his stalker.

  Sherlock backtracked around the corner to avoid being seen.

_Ding_

 

**You hate Thai Garden.  Did you follow me?**

 

Sherlock smiled. John knew him too well.

 

**Don’t be stupid, The Garden has the best Pad Thai.  Cab, yes or no? SH**

 

Sherlock swiftly hailed a passing cab and jumped in.  “Just to Thai Garden.”

 

“That’s half a block.  You can’t bloody walk it?”  The cabby looked incensed.

 

“I could, but I have a very tired friend who needs to be picked up and taken back to Baker Street.  You would have the fare both ways.”

_Ding_

 

 _“_ Alright, fine.  But I’m charging for the half block.”

 

“I implied you might.”  Sherlock looked at his phone.  

 

**Fine, I’d argue the finer points of someone asking you not to follow them.  But I’m too tired.**

 

Sherlock told the cabby to go as he returned the text.

 

**Again John, I am not following you.  You’d have noticed. SH**

 

_Ding_

 

**Don’t be an arse.**

 

The cab pulled up in front of the Thai Garden, John was leaning against the wall by the door.

 

  “You don’t really want Pad Thai.  You hate this place.”

 

  “Are you in any position to tell me what I do or don’t want to eat, John?”

 

Sherlock, gestured to the cabby to stick around before walking into Thai Garden.  The hostess groaned at the sight of him.

  “I thought we’d gotten rid of you for good.”

 

“You’d think.  But I had a _craving_ for your Pad Thai.  The quicker you fill the order, the faster I’ll leave.”  Sherlock haughtily replied.

 

The hostess looked at John.  “And you?”

 

“Nothing for me.”

 

“Duck curry for him.” Sherlock announced.

 

“I told you, I’m not hungry.”

 

“You will be later.  Once you’ve slept.”

 

John sighed and fell silent while Sherlock paid the discourteous hostess.

 

“Ten minutes.”  she snapped.

 

John and Sherlock sat in the waiting area as their food was prepared.  John’s head tilted upward, braced against the wall, his eyes closed.  Sherlock deducted that he’d fall asleep in the short cab ride home.

 

“I’m sorry.”  Sherlock muttered.

 

“For following me?”

 

“For pushing you.”

 

“I think sometimes, Sherlock, I need to be pushed.  If I hadn’t gone walking, I wouldn’t have realized how well and truly knackered I am.”

 

“And for following you, and lying about it.”

 

John laughed sharply, “Oh, I don’t care.  Right now I’ve never been happier for your resistance to boundaries.”

 

“Pad Thai, Duck Curry?”  The hostess held out a paper bag to Sherlock who took it, with a nod.  Offering John his other hand, Sherlock pulled his flatmate to his feet, and keeping a steady hand on his shoulder, walked him out the the cab.

 

_John’s breathing was finally easing.  Out of the dust, and smoke.  His entire body ached, every movement he make felt like a blade ripping through his flesh._

 

_“Hey Doc, good to see your eyes open.”_

 

_John inched his gaze over to the infirmary cot nearest his.  The man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him._

 

_“Bill Murray.” the soldier reminded him._

 

_“Right,” John coughed.  “Sorry Bill.  How’s the knee?”_

 

_“Hey, I’m fine.  You saved my sorry arse.  How about you.  How’s… well, everything I guess.”_

 

_“Excruciating.”_

 

A gentle hand on John's shoulder roused him  “Wake up, John.  We’re home.”


	5. Just a Part I Portray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his desire to not let problems affect the work, a second case crops up, looking more and more like Moran's handiwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I hope everyone had a pleasant holiday. My Sherlock collection has finally started thanks to me ol' da. (I got a 221B door blankie, it's small but warm, and I loves it. Having problems with chapter ten, which I may eradicate entirely... I don't much care for writing side-by-sides._

John was shaking.  The nightmares hadn’t been as bad as he expected, but he’d still only had a few hours of sleep.  Sherlock was in the sitting room, playing the violin as softly as was possible.  John lay on back and listened.

   He had been concerned that evening, showing a display of uncharacteristic

consideration.  They’d had small fights frequently, usually resulting in John storming out of the flat angrily.  This time was different.  This wasn't a fight, this was John being unreasonable. 

  Laying in his bed, he made the decision not to allow his problems to affect the job.  

 

  At eleven that morning, Lestrade called.  “We’ve got another.  Five people this this time.”

 

“Same poison?”  Sherlock turned his phone on speaker. 

 

“No poison.”  

 

“Then how do you know it’s the same killer?” John asked.

 

“Dinner party.  So it would seem.”

 

John shook his head. “Could still be anyone.”  He looked at Sherlock who furrowed his brow.

 

“John’s right.  There’s nothing to connect these killings.  I’ll have to see the crime scene.”

 

 Before the words were even out of Sherlock’s mouth, John had grabbed his coat and threw it on.  “I’ll get us a cab.”  

 

 “Give me an address Lestrade, we’ll be there.  Don’t touch anything.”  Sherlock hung up, and followed John quickly out of the flat.

 

The house was small, but well kept.  Lestrade was waiting impatiently.  The front door, made of reinforced oak had a single bullet hole at eye level.  “The striations and burn marks on the wood suggest the gun was held directly against the surface. There appears to be small traces of metal within the burn pattern.  But to go through the entire door unimpeded… that’s a trick.”  Sherlock pulled his magnifier from his coat pocket. “Has forensics picked at this?” 

 

  “Anderson was here before I arrived.”

 

  “Anderson, of course.  Trace amounts of what appears to be teflon… but I won’t know unless I take samples.”

 

   On the floor immediately inside the door was a woman, gun shot wound directly between her eyes.  Sherlock knelt down and looked her over.  “Nothing much to see, the killer didn’t waste any time on her after gaining access into the house.  No exit wound.  Through the door and into her skull?  The round will have _had_ to be teflon plated. I’m sure we’ll find out after autopsy.” Not much further in, was the second victim

“Large man, clearly military, several broken bones, the swelling and bruising indicating that the bones had been broken as the man fought the intruder.  Cause of death, blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”

 

The third victim was slumped against the wall, electrical cord around her throat.  “Asphyxiation… now the last two.”   Sherlock looked over to John, who had approached the last two victims.  Looking them over, their hands had been bound, both men’s faces had been whipped with the same kind of rope that bound them.

 

 “Multiple cuts, and stab wounds to the face and chest, looks like cigarette burns to hands and arms.  These men were tortured.”  John crouched down, looking closer at the victims, and their injuries.  “This one bled out via a stab wound to the subclavian artery.  The other a punctured lung.”

 

  “Does it fit?  Moran, does it fit.”

 

  “Moran?” Lestrade asked.  “You have a name?”

 

  “We have an idea.  Nothing solid.  And he only fits partially, Sherlock.  The gun shot, and the big guy.  The other three aren’t exactly his MO.”

 

  “Could have had a partner.”  Lestrade inserted.

 

  “Yes, he would have had to.  Too many components in this case.  Someone would have had to incapacitate that one, “ Sherlock gestured to the asphyxiated woman, “and tied up those two, while the other fought the solider.”

 

  “What makes you think he’s a soldier?” Lestrade asked.

 

 Sherlock fixed the DI with a withering look.  “Tags.”  

 

  “These two as well.” John muttered.  “All three men of military persuasion.”  Stoically, John rose, ripped off his latex gloves and glanced quickly at Sherlock.

 

  John betrayed no signs of outward anxiety, he forced himself to breathe as evenly as possible, he held his hands loosely at his sides.  His pupils were dilated, which Sherlock noted, but decided against mentioning.

 

  “And the women?”  Lestrade was taking notes, a habit he had formed in the early days of working with Sherlock.

 

  “Collateral damage, I’m afraid. Clearly our intruder or intruders, were after these three men, if for no other reason than they were in fact soldiers.”

 

  “No, he targeted them, because they knew him.”  John corrected.  Indicating the man with the punctured lung “Because _I_ knew him.”  There were several scars on the man’s face, some had been expertly stitched.

  “This man was discharged six months before I was.  It was Moran, remember I told you, Sherlock, and Mycroft.  A patient with a crushed skull, courtesy of Moran.”

 

“Who is this Moran?” Lestrade inquired

 

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, we served in the same company.  Not exactly the most even tempered, bit of a psychopath.  Marksman.  Considered an asset to some, a danger to others.  If he didn’t like the way you looked at a smudge on his shoes and he’d have you in infirmary faster than you could blink.”  John’s left hand had begun to shake, he quickly hid it in the pocket of his coat.  

  “Do we need to call Mycroft?’

 

“No, you can’t just go blabbing about an active criminal case!” Lestrade interjected.  

 

“Mycroft has ways around such imbecilic rules.” Sherlock scoffed.  

 

“Can you describe this guy?”  

 

“He’s roughly six foot, three - 320 pounds.  Preferred a beard, despite rules about facial hair.  He spent most of him time peering through a rifle scope.  It wasn’t hard to get away with.”

 

  “He roughed up fellow soldiers, and wasn’t court-marshaled?”

 

  “Like I said, Greg, there were those in the higher ups who considered his sniper skills to be an asset.”

 

  Sherlock was watching John carefully. At face value, he appeared to be calm, discussing the deaths of fellow soldiers, men he knew, as if it was just another day at the office.  He quickly hid any evidence that would betray the mask he donned.  Lestrade hadn’t caught on, nor had any of the others.  Sherlock was well practiced with the art of hiding behind a mask, and instantly recognized the signs.

 

  “Great.  Well, anything else you can tell me Sherlock?”  Lestrade turned, notebook in hand.  

 

 “Anything I could possibly say, has been said.  And then some.”

 

“We’ll be in touch, then.”  Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, pocketed his notes and gestured John and Sherlock out the door.

 

***

 

The cab ride was quiet, John glared out the window at the passers by, he thought of the dead man, who had almost died once before.

 

 “All right?” the register of Sherlock’s baritone shook John out of his reverie.

 

  “Yes, fine.”  He kept his voice even.

 

  “No you’re not.”

 

  “I know you pride yourself on seeing through everything and everyone, but I _am_ fine, Sherlock.”

 

  Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged, allowing John the rest of the trip back to 221B to ponder in silence.

 


	6. Awareness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John comes to a horrific and startling revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Un-beta'd._
> 
> _I don't really do trigger warnings, as more often than not, I've found them unnecessary (except in one case) being seeing as Anxiety and I are ancient enemies, I'm going to give you all a -_
> 
> _Trigger Warning; Anxiety._

There had been no new breaks in the case, John was antsy about the rent, and

muttering about needing to get a job.

 

Sherlock stood by the front window, playing something on his violin that John had never heard.  He stopped occasionally and marked a note on a sheet of music.

 

  “What are you doing?”

 

 Sherlock didn’t answer, he kept playing the short piece again and again, a different note here, or there, then he’d stop and mark his changes.

  John shrugged and made his way to the kitchen, he filled and turned on the kettle, still listening the the strains of music from the sitting room.  Knowing better, but not caring, he pulled two cups from the cupboard, before seeking out the latest hiding spot for the tea.

 

 After a few moments of waiting, and listening to Sherlock, he realized that he must be composing.  The music started slow, quiet, almost morose, before swelling into something exciting and dark.  The last few notes held some kind of unexplained emotion, but without more to go on, John really couldn’t tell.  

  He wondered briefly why Sherlock hadn’t gone into a musical career.  He would have been the talk of the world. 

   And bored.

 

  The kettle clicked off and John quickly made tea for both himself and his flatmate.  Sherlock was clearly too stuck in his own mind to thank John for the tea, which was quietly placed on the table by his left arm.

 

 John grabbed the newspaper from the table and made his way to the chair that had been deemed his.

 

 

**Five People Killed in Brutal Break-In**

 

Read the head line.  John didn’t read the speculation regarding the case.  He knew what happened.  Instead he turned to Arts & Leisure  

 

**Lost Vermeer Masterpiece discovered;**

**To be unveiled at Hickman Gallery**

 

That could be interesting.  But Sherlock didn’t seem the sort to go for art. 

 

  “I’m wondering about that man.”  Sherlock spoke softly, John hadn’t realized he’d stopped playing.

 

  “What man?”

 

  “The one at the scene, the one you knew.”  Sherlock’s brow furrowed.  He wasn’t looking at John, but the headline on the front of the paper.

 

  “Private Stan Mitchell.  He was new to the company, young.  Hadn’t quite gotten over the hero complex that the young ones have when they’re first deployed.”

 

  “You said Moran essentially crushed his skull?”

 

 John frowned, “Not exactly, there were six fractures found above the maxillary region.  The parietal bone bore the most damage, but nothing breached the blood-brain barrier…  The blow the the left temporal bone and the zygomatic process could have been the most devastating.  All I know is that upon discharge, he was deaf in his left ear.”

 

 “The scars on his face?”

 

 John sighed, wondering where this train of thought was heading, “He really was quite brutally beaten.  His face was so torn up, I found myself having to suture gaping holes in his cheeks and lips.  He’s lucky he looks… looked… anything like he had.”

 

  Sherlock lapsed into silence once again. 

 

  “I remember being terrified that there would be brain damage, whether from injury _or_ infection.  It was a miracle he pulled through at all.”

 

  Sherlock’s eyes darted to John’s as he scoffed, loudly.  “Not a miracle John.  He had a good doctor, obviously. A good doctor and a fighting spirit will keep you alive seven times in ten.”

 

John felt his face flush.  “Doctors can only do so much.” 

 

“You have your skull beat in, a doctor can plate it.  You have holes in your face, a doctor can suture them.  You get an infection, a doctor can prescribe antibiotics.”

 

  “You get a blow to the head that damages brain matter, there’s little to nothing a doctor can do.”

 

  “Well, you hardly heard me say doctors are infallible.  No, seven times in ten, John, a good doctor can save your life.”

 

  “I suppose.”

 

  The questioning, and mild flattery abruptly ended when Sherlock’s phone chirped.  “Lestrade’s ID’d all the victims.  The big guy, Daniel Ferguson was active on leave, the house belonged to he and his wife Lacey… Lacey Mitchell-Ferguson.”

 

  “Mitchell?”

 

 “It appears Lacey, Stan and Sarah, the other woman were all siblings.  The third man was Alfred Moore.  It appears he also served same time and company and you, Stan, and Moran.”

 

  “I didn’t recognize him.”  John’s face paled, he felt ill.  Small signs of panic were slipping from under he well kept mask.

 

  “You can’t remember everyone, John.”

 

  “You could.”

 

  “You overestimate my ability to care about other people.”

 

  “No, I overestimate _my_ ability to make tea that you’ll drink before it gets cold.”  John nodded to the cup on the table, changing the subject.

 

  He knew Sherlock liked to tell people he was a sociopath, but John knew better.  There were small things that only those who spent time with him could see.  His concern for his friends’ well-being was never to be overlooked.  He wasn’t able to express it as concern, but it was that.

  His love and adoration for Mrs. Hudson could not be matched.  She was the only person allowed to touch Sherlock, but more than that, Sherlock touched her. He often swept her into ecstatic hugs, kissed her cheeks, or draped a lanky arm around her shoulders.  There was no doubt in his action or his eyes. This woman was protected by Sherlock Holmes.  And god help anyone who would dare harm her.

 

  “Two men discharged from service due to injury.  One still serving.   It’s odd, isn’t it?  The two men you served with were actively tortured before they were killed.  Seems like a vendetta.”

 

  “Or a message.”  John’s breath suddenly caught in his throat, a though had crossed his mind that shed light on the entire situation.  “There may be a few things I haven’t told you.”

 

Sherlock picked up the now tepid tea and made his way to the chair in front of John’s.  “Tell me.”

 

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

 

  “ _Captain John Watson, Combat Medic and Surgeon, Sir.”  John snapped to a salute and held until the General released him._

 

_“At ease, Captain Watson.”  General Archer was an imposing presence, he almost seemed twice John’s height.  His face was heavily lined, and concern shaped his features.  “I understand you have concerns about a Colonel in your company.”_

 

_“I do, sir.  Colonel Moran.  I have been told that his service is an asset to the company, and little can be said that would change that status.  However, sir, I am concerned about his temperament.  He frequently abuses his fellow soldiers, some near to the point of death.”  John stood straighter, the General was looking rather amused._

_“Just last month, one Private Stanley Mitchell was brought to the infirmary, he was so badly beaten, his face barely retained any flesh not torn and utterly destroyed.  It took four hours in surgery to repair the bone structure.  In the end, he had to be dismissed and shipped to a hospital back home.  He’d gone deaf in his left ear.”_

 

_“You believe this was due to Colonel Moran?”_

 

_“It’s not a belief sir, I have affidavits signed by three soldiers who saw the entire thing.”_

 

_“Captain Watson, I appreciate your consideration of all the facts, however as I’m sure Major Sholto has told you, Moran’s skills are advantageous to the front lines.”_

 

_“And when he has had a hand in the discharge of half the company, sir?  Will he still be considered beneficial?”  John was out of line.  He knew this, but couldn’t stand down.  Too many had been injured by Moran._

 

_“Captain Watson,”  General Archer began._

 

_“Sir, please understand, I am not here trying to be insubordinate, I am concerned for the men and women in my care.”_

 

_“You might re-evaluate your definition of insubordination, Captain Watson.  When your superior speaks, you do not interrupt.”  John flinched subtly, but held his ground.  “The matter of Colonel Moran is in hand, and will not be discussed further.  Is that understood?”_

 

_“Yes sir.”_

 

_“You’re dismissed Captain Watson.”  The General’s tone thick with what John could only describe as malice._

 

_“Yes sir.”  John saluted, spun in his heel and left the General’s office._

 

_₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪_

 

“John?”  Sherlock’s eyes were wide and slightly alarmed.  “John, you’re not breathing.  What is it?”

 

  “When I was told there was nothing to be done about Moran’s abusive disposition, I spoke with the General.  He did not care for what he considered my insubordination, in questioning Moran’s usefulness.”

 

  “What do you mean?”

 

 John sighed, at this point the mask was off, he knew what was happening, and things were about to get worse.  “Two days after I spoke with the General, Moran had returned from whatever god forsaken stretch of desert he had been monitoring.  He debriefed the superiors, as was to be expected.  Told them about a possible insurgent uprising in Kandahar.  That night was the night of the poisoning. Five days later, we were deployed to the Kandahar Skirmish, and I was shot.  I never saw my assailant, Sherlock.  No one did.”

 

“You think Moran was responsible?”  Sherlock was on his feet now, John was collapsing in on himself, his breathing was becoming erratic, his eyes wide, he’d spilled what was left of his tea.

 

  “Archer told him…” he gasped, grasping and tugging at the neckline of his jumper as if it was strangling him.

 

  “John, you have to breathe, look at me!”

 

  John’s vision was going blurry, his ragged gasps were useless.  He was clawing frantically now at his jumper, unintelligible noises barely escaping him.  Sherlock himself began to panic.  This was the worst he’d ever seen John.  

 

 He retrieved his phone and dialed 999.

 


	7. Involuntary Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hey guys! Hope everyone's been enjoying series four. I know I have. Then the SherlockLive event on twitter... I really went places because of that damned Kermit Joke. Joe Lidster liked one tweet, and Sue Vertue actually spoke to me! I kid you not, this is the most exciting crap that happened to me in a year!  
>  As always this has been self-edited, and not brit-picked, I did research sectioning in the UK, but I may still have things wrong.  
> J.S.G._

John lost consciousness shortly before the ambulance arrived.  Sherlock had yelled for Mrs. Hudson to let Emergency Services in, he struggled with chest compressions, trying to keep oxygen flowing.

  “Dammit, John.”  He muttered, his arms were growing tired, he was short of breath himself from the effort.  The moment the paramedics entered the flat, two of them took over.  One held a ventilation mask over John’s now pallid face as the other continued compressions in Sherlock’s place.  The third was asking question after stupid question to Mrs. Hudson who looked like she was ready to cry.

 

  “Enough, she wasn’t here.”  Sherlock protested.  He gently led Mrs. Hudson to the kitchen table and offered her a glass of water.

 

  “Doctor John Watson is fairly recently returned from service in Afghanistan, he suffers from PTSD and frequent anxiety attacks.”  It seemed important that this idiot know that John was not just _a patient_ but a doctor.

  “We were speaking about a event that occurred shortly before he was shot, and he began to suffer the most vicious attack I’ve ever seen.”  

 

  “What medication is he on?”

 

  “He doesn’t take it.  It makes him lethargic which only makes things worse.”  The few times John had taken the Benzodiazapam, he had laid in bed four days straight.  No food, barely any liquids.  By the time the medication had worn off he was dangerously dehydrated.

 

  After several more questions, John, who had finally started breathing without assistance was loaded onto a gurney and taken down to the waiting ambulance.  Mrs. Hudson was distressed, there would be no leaving her behind.  Sherlock tugged gently at her sleeve and gave her a meaningful look.

  “Mrs. Hudson will go with you.  I’ll be right behind.  Take him to Bart’s.”

 

  “Sir, I’m sorry but we can only take direct relations with the patient.”

 

  “And you will be, would you deny a fretting mother access to her son?”

 

  “Oh, Sherlock.”  Mrs. Hudson cried softly.

 

  “You’re Mr. Watson’s mother?” The medic asked.

 

  “Of course she is!” Sherlock yelled.  “Look at her, you think the average neighbor would be this distressed?  No!  She’s his mother, and I’m his…”  There was nothing Sherlock could say.  There was no way he could be related by blood, they were far too different physically.  Just being a flat-mate would get him nowhere.  Though he was loathe to do so, he finished.  “I’m his partner.”

  John was going to kill him.

 

₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪

 

 

  Doctors at the A&E declared the Acute Onset Panic Disorder, not uncommon to PTSD patients.  The severity of the attack was such that John had clawed holes through his jumper and shirt, and right into the skin of his throat and chest.  The words involuntary psychiatric hold were bandied about, while Sherlock argued, and Mrs. Hudson cried, tightly grasping the hand of a heavily sedated John.

 

  “I understand your concern Mr. Holmes, but Mr. Watson is presently a danger to himself.  It it his his best interest that we place him on involuntary hold.”

 

  “ _Doctor Watson_ , is not a danger to himself.  He had a bad moment.  He’s perfectly capable of controlling himself!”

 

  “He wasn’t tonight, Mr. Holmes.  Tonight, he might have died, had you not been there.”  The doctor looked at Sherlock with something akin to sympathy.  “The fact of the matter, is that _Doctor Watson_ has ceased his appointments with a therapist and he isn’t taking his medications as prescribed.  If the medication was not working, he should have been placed on something else.  By not taking it, and not talking about it,  he created something like an emotional bottle neck.  It built up until until it had no choice but to break.”

 

  “This is ridiculous.  John is fine…”

 

  “Sherlock, dear - we should listen to the doctor.  Look at him.  How is this _fine_?”  Mrs. Hudson was wiping the tears from her face.  Sherlock looked at John, his face was drained of color, there was sweat on his forehead, his brow was furrowed.  Even sedated he looked panicked. But at least he was asleep for a change.

 

  “Fine, but I’m staying.”

 

  “Mr. Holmes I’m afraid that’s not possible. Involuntary hold is a locked ward.”

 

  “I’m a proficient lock pick.”

 

  “Mr. Holmes, please.  This is not a matter up for discussion.  You can sit in the waiting area as long as you like, but unfortunately we cannot allow you in the ward.”  The doctor brushed his fingers through his graying hair.  His exasperation was pissing Sherlock off.

 

  “So I’m to leave him with you?  A middle aged divorcee, and father of two whom he never visits as he spends so much of his time in a _locked ward_ with ‘crazy’ people.  I’m to trust a man who has anxiety problems of his own and barely to cents to rub together?  No, _Doctor_ I don’t I will trust…”

 

  A pair a swift heavy footfalls were approaching, Sherlock abruptly ended his deductions to sneer at the sound, accompanied by the tap of something that was not a cane.  _Mycroft._

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you will allow this man to do his job and help John.”  Mycroft stood directly behind Sherlock now.  “Dr. Evans, I hope you’ll forgive my little brother, he is rather attached to Doctor Watson.  These are his medical files, I hope they prove useful.”

 

  “How did you…”

 

  “Never mind that now, I’ll be taking my brother, and Doctor Watson’s _mother_ home.  Please keep us updated over the next few days.”

 

  Two nurses began to wheel John’s gurney away, Sherlock grew agitated.  Mycroft gripped his shoulder, holding him in place.  “Sherlock, he needs this.”

 

  “What do you know?  He’ll wake up, not knowing where he is.  He’ll panic all over again!”

 

  “And the doctors will be there to sedate him if that happens.  He’s in good hands.”  

 

  “Take Mrs. Hudson home.  I’m going to the morgue.”  Sherlock ripped his shoulder from his brother’s hand, gently kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek and stalked off.”

 

  “Don’t you dare bring anything else into my house Sherlock Holmes.”  she yelled after him.  He waved her off and made his way to the basement.

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  John awoke, his vision blurry, and his head pounding.  The familiar antiseptic smell surrounding him led him to believe he was in the hospital, but he didn’t know why.  “Sherl’k?” his throat and mouth were painfully dry.  He attempted to focus, looking around the small room.  _Private… wonder how that was swung_.

  Sherlock was not in the room.  The door was closed and there wasn’t even a pitcher of water within reach.

 

   He glanced around, moving his head in slow increments, trying not to cause anymore stress on his throbbing head.  There was a call button, but it was out of reach.  He couldn’t even move his arms.  Upon closer inspection, John noticed his wrists were held in place by restraints.  Fear was beginning to creep throughout his body.  Why was he being held down?  Where was Sherlock?  Why was his head pounding?

 

  The ECG beside the bed began to beep loudly, as his heart rate skyrocketed.  

The door inched open slowly and a pretty young woman with red hair entered to room.  “Everything is fine Mr. Watson, You’re at St. Bartholomew’s in the psychiatric department.”

 

   “Wa’er?” He closed his eyes as the  fluorescent lights began to feel like they were burning holes through his brain.

 

  The nurse pulled a pale pink cup out of a plastic bag and filled it with water.  “The sedatives can make your mouth quite dry.  I’m sorry I wasn’t in here when you woke up.”  She placed a short bendy straw in the cup and held to John’s lips.

 

  He took a deep drink, wetting his mouth enough to speak.  “Why,” he croaked out, “am I restrained?”

 

  “Unfortunately Mr…”

 

  “Doctor.”

 

  “I’m sorry?”

 

  “Doctor Watson.”

 

  “Of course, _Doctor Watson_.  Unfortunately, you injured yourself during your panic attack.  The Doctor thought it would be best, at least for now, to keep your restrained.”

 

  “I don't appear to be trying to hurt myself now.  I would suggest, as a professional, that maybe tying down a patient with PTSD when they don’t know where they are, might not be the best of ideas. Not if your intention is to keep them calm.”

 

  “I’ll speak with Dr. Evans.”  The nurse’s face was tinged pink.

 

  “And where is Sherlock?”

 

  “Who?”

 

  “Sherlock.  Sherlock Holmes?  My flat mate?”  

 

  “Doctor Watson, you’re in a _locked_ psychiatric ward.  There are no guests.  Your mother and your boyfriend have left.”

 

  Before John could deny having either a mother _or_ a boyfriend, the nurse fled from the room.

 

  He was going to kill Sherlock.

 


	8. 74/28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So Sorry for the late hour. ___

During the 72 hour observational hold, John had refused to sleep.  No one would give him any information as to why he had been sectioned.  After a rather raucous row with his attending, he had been released from the restraints.  

 He rubbed his wrists which were red and slightly blistered from pulling at them.

 

 “Doctor Watson, are you aware of what happened?”  Dr. Evans looked hesitant.  Part of John was secretly pleased, he felt certain that Sherlock must have given the man a hard time.

 

“No, not before waking up, tied down in a panic.”  He lied, a harsh edge to his voice, which made Evans flinch.

 

 “Your… Mr. Holmes, called emergency services,”  

_ Ah and idiot and a bigot, _ John thought.  

 “Upon their arrival you were unconscious.  The self inflicted wounds on your throat and chest posted a real concern.”

 

 “I did this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

 “I notice you’re not providing me with antibiotics, I can assure you I’ll probably need them.”  John went into self-diagnosis mode, which made the attending narrow his eyes.

 

 “Doctor Watson, I appreciate that you are a physician, but right now, you are the patient.  You were administered an antibiotic drip in the A&E.  If you require further treatment, it will be taken care of.”

 

 “Fine.”

 

 “Now, Mr. Holmes the elder provided us with your medical records, from before, during, and after your service.  I note that you were diagnosed with minor anxiety before deployment.  Let’s talk about that.”

 

 John flinched, it was shortly after his mother had died, he hadn’t been reacting normally.  Though, nothing about his relationship with that woman could be what one might consider  _ normal _ . __ She had stayed with John’s father, despite his drunken belligerence and abuse directed at Both John, Harriet and their mother.  

 After the old man had died, she herself became something of a problem.  Constant psychological abuse, paired with frequent guilt trips.  It seemed to John more often than not, her anger was tied to strings.  Every now and again she’d pull on one that had nothing to do with anything and just let the kids have it.

There were days when John though he was doing good, and being helpful, the woman would sulk into the house and start screaming that everything he had done was wrong, and now she wouldn’t sleep because she had to do it all over again.  But god help him if he didn’t do anything at all.

 

 Harry came out when she was 17, John had known for years, and tried to tell her it was bad idea.  The screaming match lasted two days, John, at some point just packed up Harry’s most treasured possessions and her better clothes for her, and helped her to sneak out.

 

 “My mother died.”  John stated simply.

 

 “But you sought help?”  Evans countered.

 

 “Isn’t that what you do when someone dies?  To prevent yourself from going insane?  Seek out help?”

 

 “ _ Mr. Watson displays no signs of sympathy or grief over the death of his mother.” _  Evans read from the file.  “But that’s not why you went.  Doctor Watson, you don’t call her Mum, or mummy.  Or any term that is endearing.  You call her mother.  This shows detachment.  I also note that the woman your friend referred to as your mother isn’t.”

 

 “I know what it shows, and you’re right.  I only ever called her mum to her face.  When I called to her at all.  And Mrs. Hudson has been more of a mother figure than mine could ever have hoped to be.”

 

 “Why do you feel so detached from your real mother?”

 

 “Why do you people always start with the mother?”

 

 “Doctor Watson, you’re not helping yourself by being combative.”

 

 “It’s not combative, it’s defensive.  My mother was not an easy woman.  Nor frankly was my father.  They were horrid, abusive people.”

 

 “That makes sense.  Tell me about them.”

 

 “My father was a physical drunk.  My mother was an emotional abuser.  I didn’t even realize I had a brain until I went to University on a rugby scholarship.”

 

 “And you have a sister?”  

 

 This line of question would get them nowhere. “Yeah, and?”

 

 “Tell me about your sister.”

 

 “My sister took to the bottle herself after our father died.  Hasn’t stopped since.  She has her reasons I suppose.”

 

 “Her reasons to… abuse alcohol?”  Evans quirked an eyebrow as if this was giving him some information.

 

 “She was run out of the house at 17 for being gay.  I had to sneak her out in order to save  _ her _ sanity.  At 30 she married Clara and they were together 13 years before she took off.  Now she’s worse than ever.”

 

 “And you felt because your sister was abandoned for being gay, you would be too?”

 

 John rolled his eyes.  “I’m not gay.”  He retorted.

 

 “I’m not here to judge Doctor Watson.”

 

 “That’s exactly what you’re doing though.  Making your little notes.  Yes, perhaps there was residual anxiety from 18 years of abuse.  Yes, I felt detached from my mother, who made me feel like the worlds biggest idiot every hour of every day.  But I passed the RAMC’s psychological evaluation, and served my country.”

 

 “Okay,”  Evans made another little note.  “Let’s fast-forward to your discharge from the Army.  Tell me what happened there.”

 

 Panic’s dark fingers were wrapping themselves around John’s heart and squeezing.  He couldn’t even tell Sherlock what he knew now.  There was no way he would tell this idiot.

 

 “I was shot.  Died.  Came back.  Discharged.  Came home.”

 

 “I imagine that was difficult for you.  You served four years?”

 

 “Five.”

 

 “And you were required to take part in therapy in order to qualify for your pension, correct?”

 

 “All soldiers returned home are asked to participate in therapy.”

 

 “Especially those invalided out.”  Evans showed no sign of slowing or stopping.  Barely allowing John a chance to breathe between questions.  This was beginning to feel more like a criminal interrogation.

 

 “Yes, and I attended.”

 

 “For three months.”

 

 “I was doing better.”

 

 “Explain?”

 

 “I met Sherlock.  He helped me.  Distracted me, kept me busy enough not to think about it.”

 

 “And that helped?  Not thinking about it?”

 

 “It did until recently.”

 

 “And what happened recently?”

 

 “Brutal reminders of war.  Doctor Evans, is it necessary to rapid fire these questions?  It’s really getting exhausting.”

 

 “I think I have what I need for now Doctor Watson.  I’m going to confer with a colleague and let you know what treatment plan we come up with.”

 

 “I won’t take the Benzodiazepines.”

 

 “Mr. Holmes said as much.  We’ll look into alternative medications for you.”

 

 “Speaking of Mr. Holmes… When can I see him?”

 

 “Once we’ve decided on a treatment plan and moved you from the locked ward, Mr. Holmes can visit.”

 

“When do imagine that will be?”

 

“Not later than tomorrow, I’m sure.  Doctor Hughes will be taking over your treatment from there.”  Evans stood and faltered a moment.

 

 “I know it’s not easy John.  You’re a proud man.  Men like you find asking for help difficult.  But it’s necessary sometimes.  You can’t expect your friend to be the cure to everything.”

 

 “I don’t.  And he’s not.  But he did save me.  Without him - I’d be in the ground.”

 

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 Sherlock had been restless since he left Bart’s.  The flat didn’t seem right without John, pushing tea, food, and sleep.  Mycroft was calling incessantly, but never with news on how John was doing.

 

 Lestrade had called a few times, trying to check in, but Sherlock had let it go to voicemail.  Mrs. Hudson had even been odd.  Too quiet.   _ Everything _ was too quiet.  He couldn’t take on a case, not without John, Molly had kicked him out of the morgue, the entire world slanted in the worst way when John wasn’t there to keep him right.

 

 After 65 hours, Sherlock had had enough.  He swept into Bart’s on a mission, seeking out Evans ready to give the man a piece of his mind.  

 It was luck, that the man found him first.

 

 “Oh, Mr. Holmes.  We were just about to call you.  Doctor Watson is out of observation and into treatment.  He’s been asking for you.”  

 

 Sherlock nodded forcefully, and asked where he was.  Room 1895.  A private room.  Clearly Mycroft had been in, swinging his umbrella.

 

 “John?”  Sherlock peeked around a standard blue hospital curtain and saw John sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

 “Close the door.”

 

 Sherlock walked in the room and closed the door behind him.  John looked thinner, and paler.  

 

 “Boyfriend?  Really Sherlock?  I had to explain that Mrs. Hudson isn’t my mother, and that I’m not actually gay to that… prick.”  He wasn’t angry, not anymore.  He was relieved to see Sherlock standing there.

 

 “I never said boyfriend.  I may have perhaps insinuated, using the word  _ partner _ .  But strictly speaking, I didn’t lie.”

 John laughed, and color began to seep back into Sherlock’s world.

 

 “I’m not even mad.  Not really.”  He scratched the top of his head, his expression darkening.  “They’re making me stay here… twenty-eight days.”

 

 “I can talk to Mycroft.”

 

 “Your  _ brother _ has done more than enough.  How the hell did he get my medical files?”  

 

 “He thought he was helping, I think.  Mycroft does unnecessary things thinking that he’s helping.”  Sherlock though back to his last stay in a hospital,  Mycroft instigated that as well.  In the long run, Sherlock was glad, but at the time, he wanted nothing more than to murder his brother with his own two hands.

 

 “Sherlock.  There’s something else.”

 

 “Hm?”

 

 “The murders.  Moran is sending a message.”

 

 “To whom?”

 

 “ _ Me. _ ”


	9. Theories and Remedies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Rough week. I'm pretty sure I proofed and edited, but I'm running on zero sleep - so I didn't do it again. If you spot a muck up, please let me know_

Twenty-eight days went by remarkably slow, for both John and Sherlock, and much to Dr. Hughes’ chagrin, Sherlock rarely left John’s side.  A fact for which John was immensely grateful.  

 After passing along John’s insight into the case, both Lestrade and Mycroft offered to put a security detail on John’s door.  John refused both, knowing that between he and Sherlock, anyone would have difficulty getting back out.

Hughes’ first attempt at new medications made John feel like even more of a basket case than he already was.  It was like a bad acid trip, things that weren’t really there, but obviously were.  Things that were there but obviously hadn’t been.

  The second attempt seemed to even out, the combination of the antidepressant and the stabilizer seemed to keep his mind more focused, the anxiety remained a problem, until he was given a high dose of Ativan.

 

 “Now, when you go home Doctor Watson, your prescription will say four times a day.  That doesn’t mean you take it on every four hour mark.  You take it when you need it UP to four times a day.”  Hughes had a habit of explaining things to him as though he were an infant.  And every time she opened her mouth, Sherlock would roll his eyes and scoff.

 

 By his release day, John was doing much better.  Even discussing the case with Lestrade and Sherlock wasn’t too bad a trigger anymore.  He had been forbidden alcohol, which wouldn’t be such a hardship, he didn’t partake often anyway.  Afraid he was his father’s son.

 

hit his lungs, John brightened considerably, he was no longer pale and washed out, but pink with the warmth of the sun, and the cool of the breeze.  Sherlock had never been more pleased, than to see his flatmate rip the identification bracelet of his wrist with his teeth.

 Everything was fine, until a sleek black town car drove up beside them.  “Nope.” John said, walking away from it.  Sherlock barely a step behind.  

 

 “Honestly Doctor Watson, you’d rather  _ walk _ back to Baker Street?”  Mycroft’s condescending tone sounded from the now open door.

 

 “Honestly, Mycroft, I’d rather walk off the roof than get in that car.  Besides, I could use the exercise, and the fresh air.”

 

 “Could you use new information on Sebastian Moran?”  John’s steps faltered.  

 

 Sherlock spun around to face his brother, who no doubt, looked smug.  “What do you know?”

 

 “Sherlock, if he had any useful information, Moran would already be in custody.  Or dead.  Either way, I wouldn’t be too broken up over it.”  John turned and stared at Mycroft, whose face was pensive.

 

 “John…” Sherlock pleaded.  John knew that tone.  Mycroft had a piece of the puzzle, Sherlock wanted it.  

 

 “Fine.  You talk to him.  I’m going home, and I’m walking.”

 

 “That might not be the best idea.”  Mycroft spoke evenly, a slight edge to his words.  A hidden meaning, John sighed.  “Get in the car Doctor Watson, Sherlock.”

 

 John pinched the bridge of his nose.  Once in the car, Mycroft gave the driver no direction, the remained in place.  “Well then.  What do you know?”

 

“Sebastian Moran has in fact taken up consortium with Moriarty.  This is not information I want to share.  James Moriarty’s reach is long.  How long, we’re not sure.  However, if Moran has a vendetta against you, I can almost guarantee, he now has the means, and the people to tail you.  If Moran is on John, Sherlock, that means Moriarty’s focus has finally turned fully to you.”

 

 “Why?”

 

 “Because he thinks you’re the same.”  Mycroft looked down toward his shoes.  

 

 “You’ve spoken to him?”  John’s eye were wide.  Mycroft always knew too much, but this was different.

 

 “We have had… passing correspondence.” 

 

 This didn’t add up.  Moriarty was a name in the ether.  Beyond Geoff Hope, they hadn’t heard it again.  Suddenly he’s hiring more hit-men, and John and Sherlock are targets?

 

 “You needed to know,” Mycroft said, trying to look John in the eyes.  “I know now wasn’t exactly the best time to tell you, but I believe you needed to be told.”

 

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 A few months passed and nothing really happened.  John, finally feeling like a human being again, got a job at a local surgery.

 

 There was a whirlwind case, featuring a Chinese smuggling ring…  It paid well enough to cover the rent for several months.  But, John’s frustrations were getting the better of him.

 He attempted a relationship with his  _ boss _ which seemed to go okay, despite Sherlock butting in on their date, getting them kidnapped and rescuing them at the very last minute.

 

 John had not yet cut back on his full day’s doses of ativan.  Especially after that disastrous first date.  In the end, Sarah had been kind enough to give him another chance, General Shan managed to escape, and Sherlock became almost unbearable.

 

 “You mind.  Don’t you?”  John deduced at breakfast not long after.

 

 “What?”  Sherlock dropped his newspaper to the table

 

 “That she escaped, General Shan.  It’s not enough that we got her two lackeys.”

 

 “Must be a massive network, John.  Thousands of operatives.  You and I… We barely scratched the surface.”  Sherlock answered, no one else would have noticed, but John could see through the straight-forward answer, to the melancholy beneath it.

 

 “But  _ you _ cracked the code, Sherlock.  And maybe DI Dimmick can track them all down now he knows it.”

 

 Sherlock sighed.  “No.   No I cracked this code, all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book.”

 

 At that Sherlock snapped open his paper, John noticed a man right outside spray painting a warning on the phone pole.  Sherlock, from the corner of his eye, noticed it too. 

 

 Both of them were aware that this syndicate could very well be connected to everything else happening around them.

 To Moriarty, Moran and the deaths that plagued them.

 

 “I think, we had better be wary, John.  It looks like things are coming to a head.  Are you certain you want to stay working in that boring little hole?”

 

 Sherlock was clear on his feelings about John working at the surgery.  He had been even clearer in his antagonism toward Sarah, who seemed a bigger distraction than either he or John had hoped.

 

 “It’s a job Sherlock.  I have to make money.   _ We _ have to make money.  There are bills.  The rent…”

 

 “A  _ job.  _ How dull.  We have jobs.  We have cases.”

 

 “And most of the time we’re not paid for those cases.”  John had wondered if questioning Lestrade about why Scotland Yard didn’t pay a consultant fee would be wise.

 

 “You just want to stay there because of  _ her. _ ”

 

 “Sherlock, I like working at the surgery, where I can put my actual skills to good use.  Yes, it can be dull, yes I do stay because I like Sarah, and just leaving after she gave me a job, an opportunity would be wrong.  I’m keeping the job.”

 

 “Dull.”


	10. Bored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This was the start of the nightmare... Thankfully I managed to end the side-by-sides pretty quickly._

 It was an overcast, Sunday morning, when everything seemed to go wrong.  There hadn’t been a case in ages, and Sherlock was getting agitated.  John had managed to ignore most of the whinging, until he had come home from work to hear gunshots in the flat above.

 

 He quickly ran to Mrs. Hudson’s door, to make sure she was safe, and to get her out.  But the door was locked. 

 Swiftly he raced up the stairs as more shots rang out.

 

**_BANG_ **

 

_   John opened his eyes to the world around him, three soldiers down mere feet away,  it was an unexpected IED, there could be more, anywhere. _

 

_  “Medic,”  A bloodied arm reached out from corpses.  “Sir, please.”   _

_ John rushed forward, head down, seeking out irregularities in the sand. _

 

_  “What’s your name Soldier?”  He asked, He finally looked to the soldier on the ground.  Her helmet was off, but the American flag patch on her sleeve gave her away.   _

 

_  “Jo.”  The lower half of her body was mangled to pieces.  If she survived, it was likely She’d lose both legs. _

__

_  “Jo, I’m Captain John Watson, of Her Majesty’s Royal Army, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”  Despite the blood and cuts covering most of her face, John could tell she was a beauty.  Her eyes were grey, with a dark blue rim.  Her face full.  He imagined she was perfectly charming when not dying in the sand. _

_  He took her pulse, and checked her pupillary response.   Not good.  She really was dying. _

 

_  “I need you to hang tight, Jo.  I’m going to call for transport.”  The girl closed her eyes and took several rapid shallow breaths.   _

 

_ “No need, Captain.  I know…” _

 

_  John’s vision blurred momentarily.  “I’ll stay with you.” he promised. _

_ He held her hand and began to tell her about himself, about home in Bristol.  He told her about the letter Harry had sent last week.  She and Clara were thinking about adopting a child together. _

_  He told her about Bart’s and the friends he made there. Jokes and anecdotes about physicians in training.  She smiled up at him, her pale eyes dimming. _

 

_  “You are a good man, sir.  Thank you.”  Jo took one last breath and just let go. _

  
  


   John staggered into the flat, covering his head as one last shot pealed through the sitting room and into the wall.  He leapt forward and disarmed his flat mate.

 

 “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING!” He yelled, discharging the the magazine from his own pistol.

 

 “Bored!”

 

 This simple statement from Sherlock was a tipping point.  John was beginning a spiral which he had not experienced since before his sectioning.

 “Bored…” He said weakly. “I come home, I hear gunshots.  I’m thinking you and Mrs Hudson…” He stopped, closed his eyes, trying to focus on breathing.  “That you’re both dead.”

 His knees gave out from under him, landing him on the floor in the middle of the the sitting room.

 

 Sherlock’s eyes widened.  “John…”

 

 “Shut up.  Just you shut up Sherlock Holmes.  You have no idea… none.”

In John’s mind’s eye, the girl was there, laying on the rug, bleeding out.  Every artery in her lower half slowly spitting the last of the blood in her broken body.

 

 “John… I’ll go get your…”

 “I said, SHUT UP!”  His fingernails dug through his trousers and embedded themselves into his knees.

 

 Sherlock said nothing but moved slowly around.  They had come to an agreement, that there be emergency meds placed, and well labeled, in every room of the flat, in the flatware drawer in the kitchen, was a bag with two Ativan.  Sherlock dispensed one, and filled a small glass from the tap, quickly returning and placing both right within John’s reach.

 

 “I’m sorry.” He whispered.  

 

John said nothing, he took the pill and the water and swallowed it down. It would take at least 30 minutes before he could fully breathe again, but something had to be said.

 “Never again.  I swear to god Sherlock.”

 

 “I know.”

 

 “If you’re bored, you find something productive to do.”

 

 “Of course.”

 

 “I will throttle you if you ever do this again.”

 

 Sherlock offered a hand to pull John up, “Understood.”

 

 John couldn’t look at him, he took the proffered hand and made his way, very unsteadily to his feet.

 

 Instead of making his way to his chair, John made his way to the nearest wall, he looked at the damage to the flat.  Sherlock had spray painted a smiling face onto the wall paper, and had apparently been using it as target practice.  John closed his eyes, frowning, slowing his breathing and straightening himself up.

 

 “I can’t deal with this now, I’m going to Sarah’s.”  He slowly made his way out of the flat, passing Mrs. Hudson as she made her way up.

 

 “Yoo hoo.  Have you two had a little domestic?  Not to worry Sherlock dear, John always comes back.”

 

 Sherlock had never in life felt as remorseful as he did that very moment.  He’d ruined the wall, forced John into an anxious state, and even driven him from the flat.  In that moment, he very much wondered if John would in fact return.

 

 Mrs. Hudson chattered in the kitchen, filling the fridge with food, and milk.  Sherlock stared out the window, watching John walk away, not looking back.

 

 “Look at that Mrs. Hudson.  Quiet.  Calm.  Peaceful.  Isn’t it  _ hateful?” _

 

 “I’m sure something will turn up Sherlock, a nice murder.”  Mrs. Hudson exited the kitchen, smiling fondly at the man still staring out the window.  “That’ll cheer you up.”

 

 “Can’t come soon enough.”

 

Mrs.  Hudson shook her head and turned toward the door, spotting the paint and the bullet holes in the wall  “OI! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BLOODY WALL?”  She yelled angrily.  “I’m putting this on your rent young man!”  Sherlock knew she meant it, he also knew John wouldn’t help pay the damages.  

 He looked at the yellow face glaring from the wall and sneered back at it.  Looking back only to see an indignant Mrs. Hudson making her way down the stairs.

 

 He was suddenly hearing an unfamiliar noise, a low screech.  Abruptly he felt himself being thrown from his feet, the keening screech ceased as the sound of glass shattering around him left Sherlock scrambling to cover his neck and head.  It was over in a matter of seconds, but those seconds seemed to last for minutes.  Glass fell, cutting through his dressing gown.  He heard screaming from downstairs, immediately forgetting to take stock of himself, Sherlock flew to the stairs.  “MRS. HUDSON!”  he yelled frantically. Spotting her sitting on the floor looking toward the front door.

 

 “What have you done, what have you done?” Mrs. Hudson’s wide brown eyes looked blankly at him.

 

 “It wasn’t me, I swear.”

 

 “Look at you!”  Tears began falling down her face, as Sherlock looked down and saw,  bits of glass had been imbedded into the front of his shirt.  Blood staining the deep gray, turning it black.

 

 “I’m fine.  Are you hurt?”

 

 “Oh, Sherlock!”

 

 Sherlock bent down, and wrapped one arm gently around his landlady’s waist, bringing her to her feet.  She was unsteady enough that he found it necessary to lead her back to her flat.

 

 The sound of sirens up and down the street broke Sherlock away.  He needed to know what had happened.

 

 “Tell me you’re alright.  I need to go see…”

 

 “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.  But Sherlock, you’re bleeding.  You should go to hospital!”

 

 Sherlock gently pulled a small shard of glass from below his clavicle, a tiny trickle of blood following.  “You see, nothing at all.  I can take care of this myself, and John will look into it when he gets back.” 

 

 He quickly made her some tea before leaving her alone to check the damage.

 

 Across the street, the building looked as if some great force knocked into it, a police constable saw him standing in the threshold.  “Everything all right there, sir?”

 

“I should say not.”

 

 “You look a fright, want the medic to have a look at you?”

 

 Sherlock gave the constable one withering stare and went back inside.  It was take a few hours before the police knew what happened, and there would be no getting over there himself.  He raced up the steps to the flat, and looked around at the mess.  Searching for his mobile.

 

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 John awoke with a crick in his neck, he tried to rub it out as Sarah exited her bedroom in a dressing gown.

 

 “Sleep alright?”  She asked with a smile.

 

 “Yea, good.  Thanks for letting me stay.”

 

 “Maybe next time I’ll let you kip at the foot of my bed.”

 

 “And what about the time after that?”

 

 Both parties chuckled under their breath, before Sarah cracked a joke about John making breakfast while she showered.  John clicked on the television, a and switched to a news station.

 

 “And now coming live from Central London, on Baker Street, where a gas main erupted last night, causing an explosion ripping through the neighborhood.”  An overhead camera shot showed 221 Baker Street, the windows completely blown out.  John was on his feet before he even knew it.

 

“Sarah?    Sarah, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go, now!”  He left her flat without another word.  His mind spinning, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson could have been hurt.  He should have had a few pints and gone home.  He never should have stayed out all night.

 He hailed a cab and demanded they get him as close to home as possible with the entire street shut down. 

“You live there, mister?  You know its blown up?”

 

 “Yes, I’m aware, I need to get there quickly!”

 

 “Family at home, then?”

 

 “I will pay an extra ten quid if you shut up while you drive me there.”  John was not in the mood to talk.  He had to make sure everyone was okay.  He was fighting to keep a lid on his anxiety, he had failed to pack overnight meds.  He clenched his shaking left hand several times.

 

 After a long twenty minutes, the cabbie drove right up to the mouth of Baker Street.  “Hope your family is okay, mate.”  Offered the cabbie as John paid. 

 

 “Me too.”  He murmured.

 

  Racing down the street, and around several members of emergency services, John was stopped at a tape line.  “I live there, across the way.  221.”

 

 The constable nodded and let him through, John glanced incredulously at the ruined building across from his home, before dashing inside.  First he knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door, “I’m fine, Dear.  Not to worry, Sherlock saw to that.”

 

 It was a minor relief to know that Sherlock had been well enough to make sure their landlady was okay.  John nodded and informed Mrs. Hudson that he’d be back to see about her hip after he checked on Sherlock.

 He made his was quickly up the stairs and into the flat.  There in the sitting room, fondling the bow of his violin was Sherlock, sitting across from a rather severe looking Mycroft.

 

 “Hello, John.”  Sherlock’s baritone called out without even looking in John’s direction, John walked in, looked at the state of the flat and back to the Holme’s brothers.

 

“Alright?”

 

 “Of course.  How was the Lilo?”  Sherlock asked, his eyes still trained on Mycroft who was actually looking at John.

 

 “Not the Lilo, Sherlock, look closer.”

 

 Sherlock finally turned his head to look fully at his flat mate.  John noted several small cuts on his face and neck, his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

 

 “Oh, yes.  The couch, of course.”  He narrowed his eyes slightly at John, and turned back to Mycroft.  “I am sorry Mycroft, I just can’t help you right now, things are very busy at the moment.”

 

 “Sherlock, this is a matter of national importance.”

 

 “Don’t care.”

 

 Mycroft sighed and stood from John’s arm chair, walking to the shorter man, handing him a file.  “I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you soon.”   He moved to walk out the door as Sherlock abused his violin.

 

 “Why’d you lie?”

 

 “You want to go take care of yourself before we get into all of this?”  Sherlock was staring at John’s left hand, which he had only just realized he was still clenching and unclenching.

 

 “You’ve had nothing on, that’s why the wall took a beating.”

 

 “I didn’t lie.”  Sherlock finally said.  “We are busy, Lestrade just called.”

 

 “He said national importance.”  John tilted his head, still looking over Sherlock’s wounds.  “How bad are those?”

 

 “How quaint.  Queen and Country.  I’m fine, John.  You?”

 

 “Could use a shower.”

 

 “Well, hurry up, then.  Or I’ll go without you.”


	11. Beyond the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter was absolute hell. I eventually had to delete and start from scratch, because I was doing a side-by-side of the pool scene. I hated it. That story has been told - you don't need me to rehash it, even for John's sake. I got my golden lines in, and for that I'm happy. But I feel like I really started going downhill after this chapter._

_ James Moriarty stepped out of the shadows, a serpentine smile on his handsome face.  _

_  John’s body felt heavy, his head hurt.   _ Concussion _ he diagnosed.  Sherlock stood nearby, aiming John’s Browning at the man, while rifle lasers pointed at the flatmates, _

 

_  “Look at you two.  Sherlock Holmes and John Watson…  Two cogs behind the face of the clock.  Take one out - time stops, and everything… comes to a grinding stop.”  Moriarty sneered.  “It is tempting.  I do like a big show Mr. Holmes.  What would happen to you, without your little pet?” _

 

_  Neither John nor Sherlock spoke Moriarty crept slowly forward and breathed into John’s ear.  “This little cog has an old friend up there, waiting in the dark.  Waiting for my signal.  Oh, he wants you Johnny Boy…” _

 

 John bolted upright, twisted in his sheets and breathing hard. Moriarty had made his place in John’s nightmares after the pool incident. 

 He quickly grabbed the bottle of Ativan from his bedside table and swallowed one down dry.

 

He lay back on his pillow, his eyes closed, breathing deep and slow, regaining some control over his heart rate.

 

 It had been almost a week before John felt  _ normal _ again, some moments better than others, and Sherlock was constantly vigilant.  He rarely said a word, but the moment John’s control slipped even a little, he was there, a pill in one hand a glass of water in the other.  They both had reasons to let this new system work.  The hospital was not an experience either wished to revisit.

 

 Opening his eyes, John pushed himself up and swung his legs out of bed.  It was still early.  He grabbed his dressing gown from the foot of the bed and threw it on.  Contemplating breakfast and several cups of strong tea.

 

 “Good morning, John.  Sleep well?”  Sherlock was sitting at the desk in the sitting room using John’s computer.

 

 “I’m sure you can deduce.  Is that my computer?”

 

 “I’m sure you can deduce.”  Sherlock returned, his mouth turning up at one corner.

 

 “At least ask, Sherlock.  I don’t mind you using it.  Just ask.  Where is yours?”

 

 “In the bedroom.”

 

 John laughed lightly.  “And you couldn’t be arsed to go and get it?”

 

 “You’re in a better mood today.”

 

 “And I was thinking breakfast.”  John made his way to the fridge, certain he’d find nothing worth cooking.  “Anything in?”

 

 “Mrs. Hudson did the shopping, but save me some eggs.”

 

 “You’re not experimenting on the food, Sherlock.  Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to play with your food.”

 

 “No.  I think Mycroft may have tried once.  I don’t imagine it went well.”  Sherlock smirked.  His parents had been mostly tolerant of his eccentricities.

 

  John hummed softly, pulling two eggs out.  “Hungry?” he called over his shoulder to Sherlock who was now quietly observing from his arm chair.

 

 “No, thank you.”  Sherlock furrowed his brow, and steepled his hands under his chin, watching attentively as John pulled out a frying pan.  “Nightmare?” 

 

 John sighed, he never knew he had so many tells. “Pool.” He explained.

 

 “John, Moriarty has crawled back into his hole.  He over-exposed himself.”

 

 “Oddly enough, I couldn't care less about Moriarty right now.”  Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up, John hadn't been able to tell him about Moran.

 

 “I don't understand.”

 

 “Well, that's certainly a first.”  John fixed his eyes on what he was doing as he began to explain.  “He whispered something to me, Moriarty.  He told me that Moran was there.  Playing sniper that night.”  His hand tremblef as he flipped his breakfast. “To be honest, the worst Moriarty can do is talk.  He made that clear.  He just gives the orders.  Moran on the other hand… he enjoys the participating.  He’d have no problem torturing and killing either of us.”

 “There haven't been any more murders we can link him to.  If he’s under Moriarty’s control now, I think we can safely say he’s flying under the radar now as well.”

 

  John shook his head.  “He doesnt work that way.  If he’s not ordered to kill, he gets bored. I think that's why Moriarty took him on.  He's a bloody psychopath.”

 

 Sherlock nodded, and John went about finishing his eggs and making tea.  He gestured at Sherlock with a mug, silently asking if he wanted some.  Sherlock nodded and re-steepled his hands.

 

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  John had an appointment with Dr. Hughes, he dreaded the questions she always asked,  _ Rate your anxiety today,  _ or  _ How have you been sleeping?  Any more nightmares? _  He knew he’d have to bring up the “Great Game” as he dubbed it in his blog, and the pool.  So he knew it would already be known.

 Sherlock on the other hand had made arrangements with Lestrade to speak with the other semtex victims. The ones who survived.  “He got me interviews with the first two.  The child isnt speaking.”  Sherlock told John as they left the flat.

 

  “Probably for the best.  I don't want to imagine your tactics with the adults, but a kid cant really handle your usual methods.”

 

 “I can control myself, John.”

 

 “Yes, you just choose not to.”

 

 “Now you're sounding like my brother.” Sherlock accused with a scoff. He quickly hailed a cab and clamored in. “Bart’s Hospital, then Scotland Yard.”

 “Offensive!”  Despite the accusation, John was smiling.  The banter was almost relaxing.   It felt normal.

 

 “Will you tell Hughes about the pool?”

 

 “I imagine I'll have to.  It’s on the blog.”

 

 Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Highly fictionalized.”

 

 “Except it really happened.  We really almost died.”

 

 “Except we didn't.”

 

 “Logically, I agree.  However…”

 

 Sherlock shook his head, “I get it.  It's hard for you to compartmentalize psychologically.”

 

 “A bit too much in my head to try.  We can't all have a mind palace.”

 

  “You could, if you tried.”  They were a few minutes from Bart’s.  John looked curiously up at his flat-mate.

 

 “I’m not even going to ask.”

 

 “It's easier than you think.”

 

 The cab pulled up to the Hospital, John pulled a £10 note from his wallet and handed it to Sherlock.  “I’ll meet you at NSY in an hour.  Play nice.”  Sherlock scowled but accepted the note.

 

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 “Mr. Watson, go ahead in, Doctor Hughes is waiting for you.”

 

 John ambled toward the small office slowly.  Pausing momentarily before knocking on the door. “Come in.” 

 John walked in, offering a small tight smile to the woman behind the desk.  She looked up from her computer, her eyes wide.

 

 “Doctor Watson.  I was just reading your blog.”  She looked horrified.

 

 “I figured you might.”

 

“Please tell me this didn't really happen.”

 

 “I wish I could.”

 

 Hughes’ jaw dropped.  “Good god, John.  How are you still standing?”

 

 “Honestly, I wasn't for a few days.  I went through the motions, Sherlock helped.  A lot.  He can see when things are starting to get bad.”

 

 Hughes had made it known she didn't care for Sherlock’s influence.  She felt that his actions would only make things worse for John.  “Doctor Watson, are you sure you want to continue your affaffiliation with Mr. Holmes?”

 

 “Some days, no.  But he’s my best friend.  And he saves my life as often as its endangered.”

 

 “A man in your position, Doctor Watson, should not be putting his own life in danger.”

 

 “It’s not suicidal.  It what we do.  We solve crimes, and save lives.  And in this case, yes, there was a large element of danger, but it wasn't Sherlock’s fault.  He didn't knock me out, cover me in semtex, and threaten my life.  That was Moriarty.”

 

 Hughes sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “I don't like this John.  I really don't.”

 

 John frowned “You don't have to like it.  This is what my life is, and I have no intention to change it.  I said it before, Without Sherlock Holmes, I would already be in the ground.”  He stood up, and moved toward the door.  “Call my meds in, we’re done for today.”

 

 “John, sit down.  If you walk out now, you invalidate the contract for care.”

 

 “Contract for care?” John rolled his eyes.  You forget I'm a doctor, not an idiot.”

 

 “No, you would never allow that.  What I'm saying is that if you walk out, I'm within my right to have you sectioned again.”

 

  John paused not looking back.  It wasn't an empty threat, if he was sectioned again, they’d keep him longer than just one month. “My work with Sherlock, my living arrangements, and my friendship with him, are not topics up for discussion.  He is my best, and only friend… Do not ask me to give that up.”

 He walked back to his chair, and glared, daring the woman to defy his wishes.

 

 “Fine.  Tell me how you've sleeping.”  John groaned and launched into the barage of inane questions.

 


	12. The Exception

 New Scotland Yard was abuzz with what were now being called The Semtex Abductions.  The two adult victims had both been taken, much the same way as John, a quick blow to the head before waking to find themselves covered in explosive.  Notes of threat, and instructions on how to play the game.  Lestrade was outside his office, through a clear plexiglass  wall, John saw Sherlock, nodding quietly as he listened to the first victim’s story.

 

 “Greg!” John hollered over the din.  Lestrade help up a hand and gestured John over.  “How’re things going in there?”

 

 “Forget that for now.”  Lestrade’s eyes had deep bags, making it look like he had two black eyes.  He clearly hadn’t been sleeping any better than John had.  “I have only just been informed of the incident relating to this case, involving you.”

 

 “It's fine Greg.  It's over.”

 

“It bloody well is not fine.” Greg hissed.   “This entire thing has Sherlock’s name all over it.  You should have called.  Instead, Donavan read it in your damned blog!”

 

 “Listen, you’re pissed off. I get that.  Thing is, I didn’t plan on being abducted.  I didn’t plan on any of it  Sherlock may have, just a little, but he didn’t consider I’d be drawn into it.”

 

 “You might have died, John…” 

 

 “Yeah, but what am I anyway?  I’m just a blogger.”

 

 “You’re the only one who can manage him.” He jabbed a the office door.

 

 “You realize, if I had gone up, so would he.  We weren’t a block between each other.”

 

 “Way to make it worse there, John.”

 “I just mean… I don’t know what I mean Greg,  Just look.  We didn’t call you because I was not in the headspace to deal with interrogation.  Sherlock saw that, he always sees it.  And he got me home.  We weren’t intentionally keeping you out of it.”

 

 “I don’t know how you sleep at nights.”

 

 “About the same as you, from the look of things.”  John nodded slightly and looked at each of Lestrade’s eyes in turn.

 

 “Barely even been home since this whole thing started.”

 

The office door opened and a puffy eyed woman who was tightly clutched her purse walked out, not making eye contact, followed shortly by Sherlock.

 “What the hell did you do?”

 

 “I asked questions!”

 

 “What questions, Sherlock.”  John asked.

 

 “Nothing ghastly.  Just normal questions.  Did she see the assailant, did she wake up in that car… Normal questions.”  He looked incisively at John.  “I did promise.”

 

 “Yes, you did.  Sorry for doubting you.”

 

 “You two are acting strange.” Lestrade’s eye slipped from John to Sherlock, and back.

 

 “I assure you, we’re not acting, Greg.” John answered.  “It’s a system we’re working on.”

 

 “A system?”

 

 “There is absolutely no reason to explain anything.  Lestrade, I still want to talk to the child.”

 

 “Not going to happen.”

 

 “John, then.  Let John talk to him.”

 

 “Sherlock…” John warned

 

 “He can commiserate, he went through the same thing.  He’s a doctor and he’s good with people, and kids.”  

 

 “It’s not my call, Sherlock.  The parents have asked for time.  We have to respect their wishes.”

 

 “They asked you. Not us.”

 

 “Sherlock, enough.”  John grabbed his friend’s arm and squeezed tightly.  “If we go to that boy’s house, we implicate Scotland Yard.  We can’t lie and say we’re press - they’d have us arrested.  Leave it alone.”

 

 “I can’t leave it alone John, it’s a part of the puzzle, and piece of the bigger whole.”

 

 Lestrade cleared his throat.  “John’s right, Sherlock.  They know you, they know your involvement.”

 

 “I SAVED THEIR SON!”

 

 “Yeah, when he started counting down from ten.  One second Sherlock, one second and he’d have died!”

 

 “Why is everyone so fixated on what might of happened instead of what DID happen?”

 

 “Because that’s how people are,”  John answered  “The fear of the unknown, looking into the face of death… it’s a terrifying prospect, especially when there’s a child involved.”

 

 “And because for a split second, when you saw John that night, didn’t you panic and imagine life without him?”  Greg added on.  John smiled warmly at the man.

 

“But it’s  _ over _ now.”

 

 “Not for the kid.  Not for his parents.  We have to let this one go.  He has to be the exception.”

 

 Sherlock made a frustrated noise, throwing up his arms and flying away, his belstaff floating around him like a cape.

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 Back at 221B, Sherlock was sulking.  John knew that he hated not having all the variables firmly in place, 

and bore the mood excessively well.

 “No point in sulking Sherlock.  This is just how it has to be this time.”

 

 “Fine.” Grumbled the detective.

 

 “There’s nothing we can do now anyway.  He’s in the wind.”

 

 “Are they all?  Is Moran?”

 

 John closed his eyes for a few moments, thinking.  “We can’t know until something happens.”

 

  Sherlock was lounging fully on the couch, facing it’s back, his phone made a loud dinging sound, causing the man himself to huff.   “Mycroft.” he managed before rolling onto his back and steepling he hands against his lips.

The day progressed slowly, Sherlock snapping every hour or two that John was thinking to loud, or demanding tea. 

  At one point he angrily scratched away on the violin, making god awful sounds just to annoy John.

 “That's it.  I’ve had it.  Go get dressed, we’re getting out of this flat before I strangle you.”  

 

 “That would be ambitious.”

 

 “I think you forget sometimes, Sherlock.  I was a soldier.”

 

 “I never forget, John.”  Sherlock remained rooted where he stood.

 

 “Good.  Go get dressed.  I’m not taking you out in public in your dressing gown.”

 

 “Where are we going?”

 

 “I told you, out.”  John smiled mysteriously.

 

 “Is it a murder?”

 

 “Nope.”

 

 “A case?”

 

 “Not telling.  Go. Get. Dressed.”  John had spent the better part of the afternoon typing up an email to the mother of the boy Sherlock was desperate to question.  She had been in touch saying her son, Christopher, was willing to talk to Sherlock.

  
 John watched as his flatmate whisked to his bedroom, slamming the door.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Okay - now, I know you're going to hate me for this, and you have my sincerest apologies, but this is where things slow down. My new job, (which is excellent by the way) has been absconding with my time. When I'm not working, I am utterly exhausted from working. (e.g.. I woke up at 4am yesterday, and didn't get home until 10pm. All because of work.) So while I know this is going to have some of you scampering off, I leave you with a tantalizing hint. The game is back on - and /gasp/ out our boys blushing at one another? Thank you for reading, you are all amazing._
> 
>  
> 
> _Shout out to two of my avid readers North and Ianto. Love you both!_


	13. Erroneous Differential

 “High functioning sociopath…”

 

 Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch, his laptop on his knees, looked up to see John leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.  “What?”

 

 “That first night.  With the pink lady’s case,”  John’s arms were crossed, his brow furrowed.  “You corrected Anderson.  He called you…”

 

 “I know what he called me.  I know how I responded.  What is the point of this conversation?”

 

 “You don’t actually believe that - do you?”  John’s gaze would not meet Sherlock’s eyes.  He seemed troubled.

 

 “John, I’m sure Mycroft would be only too happy to tell you that I was a terror as a child.  The were multitudes of psychiatrists,  all of whom gave my parents different answers.  Sociopath stuck.”

 

 “You’re not.” John said, finally glancing up, a look of determination in his eyes.  “And my mother would have said the same of both Harry and I.”

 

 “John…”

 

 John took a few steps forward, and placed one hand on the back of his chair.  “No, hear me out.  Sociopaths do not form social attachments.  They don’t have friends, they’re generally incapable of working with others.  That’s not you.  For one, you have me.  I’m your friend, we work well together.  Then there’s Lestrade.  I know he considers you a friend - whether or not you agree.  There’s Molly Hooper…”

 

 “John, you’re misjudging...”

 

 “No.  I’m not.  You are capable of creating social connections.  You just  _ prefer _ not to.  You’re not a sociopath, you’re just anti-social.”

 

 Sherlock sat back in his chair and sighed. He looked John over quietly.  The man had just got home from the surgery.   _ Something must have happened _ .   
 “Interesting day, I take it?”

 

 John laughed, looking to meet his friend’s mercurial eyes.  “You see right through me don’t you?”

 

 “You saw Hughes at lunch as well…”

 

 “I had a patient.  Combative as hell, screamed whenever someone came near him.  He’d been diagnosed with Asperger’s as a child.  More recently he’s been diagnosed as Schizophrenic with a Sociopathic tendencies.”

 

 “And this diagnosis has made you question mine?”  Sherlock stared, mildly amused - then nodded.  “I can see where you might be confused on the matter.  That’s where the “high-functioning” part comes in.  I am proficient enough in socialising.  However, I am not able to accurately read people in a social sense.”

 

 “Bullshit.”

 “Excuse me?”

 

 “You  _ read people  _ better than anyone I’ve ever known, you just have difficulty responding in kind.  You’re not a sociopath, Sherlock.  High-functioning or otherwise.”

 

 “And I suppose that this was brought up with Hughes?”

 

 “I don’t talk to Hughes about you.”

 

 “Really?”

 

 “She’s not fond of you.”  John’s smile faltered and his face reddened with anger.

 

 “Few people are.  I don’t see why that should preventing your voicing a concern.”

 

 “You want me to talk to  _ my _ psychiatrist about you?”

 

 “No.”

 

John sighed as the kettle clicked off, he turned back into the kitchen to make his tea.  “Do you want some?”  He called into the sitting room.

 

 “That would be lovely, thank you.”

 

 John fumbled his mug at that.  “Told you.” He muttered under his breath.

 

 Sherlock stood from his chair and made his way to the kitchen, he watched and John bustled about the kitchen, his shoulders tensed.  “Something else?”

 

 “I… No.  Nothing else.  I just thought you ought to know, I don’t believe it for a minute.”

 

 “You should, you know.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper.  “John, you have an absurd talent for dealing with me.  You are one person in the entire world, who could spend more than a day in my presence and still be able to stand me.  Whether or not you believe something is hardly the point.  I am what I am, this will not change.”

 

 “Believe it or not, Sherlock, it already has.  People have pointed out lately, that you’ve become more tolerable to them, because you defer social interactions to me.”  John drizzled milk into Sherlock’s tea before handing it to him.  “Lestrade has made note that you’re less of a pompous dick than usual, these days.”

 

 “Lestrade’s an idiot.”

 

 “Anderson said something stupid last week, and you ignored him.”

 

 “Ignoring him takes less effort than educating him.”

 

 “Sherlock...”

 

 Sherlock sipped at his tea before setting the cup aside and fixing John with a devastating look.  “I have said before, John, your fondness for me blinds you to the obvious.  I have not changed.”

 

 “My fondness is what makes me see the real you.”  Sherlock’s ears flushed pink, and John looked away. Momentarily embarrassed by his words.

 “You, Sherlock Holmes, are a good, and brilliant human being.  Sometimes you fail to edit yourself, and sometimes you can be a right arse.  But you are  _ not _ a sociopath, nothing you ever say, or do - will make me believe you are.”

 

 “You think too…” Sherlock was interrupted by a loud alert from his phone.  “Lestrade.”  He read the text and paled slightly.

 

 “Case?”

 

 “Moran.”

 

 John went rigid, the calm had been too good to last.  He knew the storm would wash back ashore eventually, and here it was.  

 

 “Lestrade doesn’t think it’s a good idea for you come.”  Sherlock looked up, eyeing John carefully.

 

 “Too fucking bad.  This is about me, this is  _ my _ case.”

 

 “Exactly why he… no.  You’re right.  Let’s go.”  Sherlock made his way to the door, grabbing his Belstaff.  He looked back to see John rooted where he stood.  “John?”

 

 The doctor clenched his left fist tightly and turned to meet his friend’s questioning gaze.  “ _ You _ don’t think I should go.  You know something.”

“It’s not going to be an easy one.”

 

 “Are they ever?”

 

 Sherlock shrugged, wrapping a sapphire blue scarf around his neck.  “This one may be worse.  Than the others.  For you.”  His pauses and full stops were making John tense further.

 

 “Who?”  He croaked.

 

 “John,”

 

 “WHO?”  

 

 “Murray.”

 

 John stumbled, all the color draining from his face.  “Bill Murray?”

 

 “It would seem so.”

 

 “Just…” John attempted to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “Just Bill?”   Sherlock said nothing but averted his eyes.   “Jesus Christ.”

 

 “John you don’t have to come.  If it’s too much, I’ll go and report back.”

 

 “I don’t know which would be worse.”  John’s eye’s dilated, he clenched his fists and straightened his back.  “I’m going.”

 

 “Are you sure?”

 

 “Sherlock, he saved my life.” 

 

 “I know.”  Sherlock stepped forward and put a calming hand out.  John flinched at the near touch and Sherlock dropped his arm, frowning.

 

 “I’d be dead if he hadn’t been so quick.   And now…”  He began to shake visibly.  “Why is he doing this, Moran?”

 

 “He wants your attention.  As much as Moriarty wants mine.  It’s a game to them, John.”

 

 “Killing people, is not a game.”  

 

 “No, it’s not.  Not to us.”

 

 John looked up, a small panicked smile gracing his lips for a fraction of a second.  “Sociopath indeed.”

 

 Sherlock huffed indignantly.  “Do you need to go get your…”

  
 “No, let’s just go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Okay it's short and sweet. But it's time to shake John to the core. He's been too comfortable for too long. The game, dear readers, is back on!_


	14. The Murrays'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello my angels! I know only too well, that today is Tuesday, however I'm going out of town for the next two days, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have time to get this chapter to you, if I didn't post it today. It's my first big gig with the new job. Kinda cool to have your company pay to put you up for two nights._
> 
> _In the past week or so, I really fleshed out the end of this story. I'm super excited/terrified about the twist ending I have in mind. There's going to be some gore in the next 3-4 chapters, and trigger warnings will be in place for a particularly nasty one. So without further ado, please enjoy Chapter 14!_

John had never met Maureen, in the short amount of time he’d known Bill, the man had raved about his paramour.  He knew they had married shortly after Bill had returned home, but had been in no shape to attend the wedding.  

 

 Bill had made sure to keep John apprised, via email, the blog, and on the rare occasion a phone call.  He had called two months ago, excited.  

 

_  “Hey, Doc, Bill Murray here!” _

_  “Bill, hi.  Good to hear from you.  How’s the little missus?” _

 

_  “Great, Captain, better than great!  You’ll never believe it.  I had to tell you, had to call.” _

 

_  “It’s John now, Bill.  Are you  _ bouncing _?” _

 

_  “Maybe a bit.” _

 

_  The excitement in his voice was palpable, giving John something of an idea of the news the man wanted to share. _

 

_  “We’re having a kid, Doc.  I can’t believe it!  I’m gonna be a dad!” _

 

_  John grinned into the phone, “That’s amazing, Bill!  Congratulations!  No more war zones and bullets shattering knees for you.” _

 

_  “I think the shattered knee ended that career for me.  I’m so excited.  You’ll come by to see us once the kid’s born, won’t you?  Give us a second opinion as to his health?” _

 

_  “ _ His _? Is Maureen that far along already.  You should have told me sooner!”  _

_ “Nah, two and a half months.  I’m hoping for wee lad though.” _

 

_  “I can see it now.  You teaching him to throw a ball.” _

 

_  “Don’t forget to pull the pin, son.” _

 

_  John laughed into the phone.  “This is great, mate.  I’m so happy for you, and yes,  of course I’ll be by to see him, and you.  Wouldn’t hurt to meet Maureen either.” _

 

_  “Thanks Captain,” _

 

_  “John, Bill.  I’m not your captain anymore.  I’m you’re friend.” _

 

_  “Right, thanks  _ John _.  I just needed to share with someone.  Everyone else I know is still over there.” _

_  “I know.  Congrats again.” _

 

_  “Thanks John.  I’ll keep you posted.” _

 

_  “Can’t wait.  Talk soon, Bill.” _

 

_  “Yeah, talk soon.” _

 

**₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪**

 

 John glared out the window of the cab, following the route to the Murray’s new home in Slough.  Sherlock sat stock still, glancing occasionally at his flat-mate, whose jaw had not unclenched since they left home.

 

 “Stop.  Staring.  I am not going to spontaneously combust.”  John croaked, his voice tightly controlled.

 

 “You might not combust, but I have seen you break down from mere revelations, John.  Forgive me if this is concerning.”

 

   John didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.  

 

_    “Hey Doc, good to see your eyes open.”  The young soldier was looking over at John from a nearby bed, his knee bandaged and held aloft for traction. _

 

_  John inched his gaze over to him.  The man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. _

 

_  “Bill Murray.” the soldier reminded him. _

 

_  “Right,” John rasped.  “Sorry Bill.  How’s the knee?” _

 

_  “Hey, I’m fine.  You saved my sorry arse.  How about you.  How’s… well, everything I guess.” _

 

_  “Excruciating.”  John tried to turn his head to look at the wound that seemed to be burning through his shoulder.  The small motion of his head sent a sharp pain screaming down his chest and arm, causing him to gasp audibly.  With a few deep breaths he managed to turn his eyes back to Bill.  “You pulled me down.” _

 

_  “Saw the muzzle overhead.  Didn’t see the shooter.”  Bill looked up at the leg thoughtfully.  “Shrapnel broke off, hit my femoral.  You kept me from bleeding out.” _

 

_  “You’re a CMT?” _

 

_  “How can ya yell?”  Bill was now grinning.  “Met my girl, Maureen, at university.  Stalked my way into all her classes, wound up training as a nurse.” _

 

_  “What can you tell me about my wound, Bill?”  John closed his eyes, listening to the friendly voice. _

 

_  “There’s been some pretty nasty damage, Captain Watson.”  The younger man’s voice went from friendly to professional.  “From what I’ve heard, sounds like the left clavicle was broken in three places, the subclavian artery was nicked… thankfully the round went straight through.  God, there was a lot of blood…  I did my best to keep pressure, didn’t realise you were bleeding out the back too.  They put you on antibiotics, but last night the nurses were concerned about a fever, so there may be infection.” _

 

_  “Definitely infection.”  John’s mind felt fuzzy, he was exhausted, and the pain was like nothing he had ever known.  “Not to be rude, Murray - but I think I may go back to sleep now.” _

 

_  “You do that, Doc.” _

 

 “John…. JOHN!”  Sherlock’s voice broke through the fog of John’s mind.  “John, are you alright?”

 

 “Sorry.  I was a million miles away.”  His voice came out a small whisper.

 

 “You don’t have to go in there.” Sherlock nodded out the window to a small house that had been taped off.  

 

 John just shook his head, staring at the flashing lights from NSY’s cars.

 

 He stretched out a hand to open the door, pausing momentarily to pay the cabbie, while Sherlock bounded off to his crime scene.  “Christ mate, you with the cops?”

 

 “No, I’m with their consulting detective.”

 

 “What’s that, then?”

 

 “Bugger if I know.”  John exited the cab and slowly walked up to the police tape, where Sally Donovan stood looking sheepish.

 

 “Doctor Watson.”  She lifted the tape to let him through, her features schooled into a neutral expression.

 

 “Sergeant Inspector.”

 

 “He’s gone in, already.  Sure you’re up for this?”

 

 John looked up, frowning.  Pity briefly flashed across Donovan’s face.  John squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, and walked swiftly toward the house.  “Sherlock?”  

 

 Lestrade spun around, guilt dripping off him.  “I told him not to bring you.”

 

 “Well, that was stupid for a number of reasons.  When does Sherlock ever listen, and what the hell made you think I didn’t need to be brou…”  John’s eye had caught the body of a soldier who was not Bill Murray.

“That’s Captain David McCallister.”  

 

 “John, I think you had better wait outside.”  Lestrade looked nervously at McCallister’s body.

 

“Where’s Maureen?  Is she here?  She’s almost five months pregnant.  Where is she?”

 

 “There are no women present, John.”

 

 “Bill’s wife.  Maureen!  She’s not here?  You’re sure, you’ve canvassed the entire house?”  John pushed past Lestrade and made his way over to David’s body.  He knelt in a bloody puddle on the carpet, looking the body over.  He hadn’t been friendly with David, they had met during their field promotions to Captain.

 The side of his head had been beat in, another case of blunt force trauma, fitting Moran’s modus operandi to a tee.

 John glanced up, seeing Sherlock’s coat sweeping wildly around the other body in the room.  The was far more blood in the carpet around Bill’s body.  John stood, unable to make his legs move.

 

 “Fascinating.”  Sherlock murmured. 

 

 Lestrade’s hand found it’s way to John’s shoulder, the smaller man stumbled forward, looking wide eyed at the Detective Inspector.  “If you’d rather… go.  I’ve got Donavan looking for the wife.”

 

 Again, John merely shook his head.  Unable to find words to convey the panic racing through him.  He began to inch forward.

 Sherlock looked up, his usual crime scene excitement was pulsating from his body language, but his face showed genuine concern for John. 

 

 The doctor moved closer and saw Bill Murray.  Moran’s intent was written clearly in the blood saturating the carpet around the man’s body.  His right hand was roughly three metres away from his body, the murder weapon, an ancient looking cane machete, was lodged quite thoroughly in the same knee that had been shattered in the firefight in Afghanistan.  It was clear that despite the injuries, Bill had forced himself to move away from his assailant, he had bled out, alone.

 

 “Jesus.”  John’s throat tightened in horror.  “He…”

 

 “Lestrade, I suggest you keep me posted.  I’ll text you later with the details.”  Sherlock tugged gently at John’s jacket.  The man continued to stare at the corpse before him.

 

 “Time to go, John.”

 

 “You’re done?”

 

 “Yes, I think so.”

 John nodded slowly, and turned his eyes to Sherlock, who saw without delay, that if they made it back to the flat without a full-blown meltdown, they’d be very lucky indeed.


	15. Misfortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry I'm late my dears. Yesterday and today have just been one fight after another. Today I'm setting a trigger warning. Those who have trouble with death of adults, are death of the unborn... DO NOT go looking for Maureen Murray with J &S. _

 The next week did not go well, Sherlock’s call to Hughes had been well meaning, but had nearly landed John back in the the psychiatric department.

 

 Lestrade had called to inform John that one Maureen Murray had been located, in perfect health, staying with her mother.  This did not assuage John’s guilt.  He had felt rather like he should have been the one looking for her.  

 He knew Moran’s game now, he knew that the moment the man found Maureen was connected he’d go after her.  Then he’d go after Harry.  Sherlock seemed certain that Moran wouldn’t come near him.  Moriarty had his own designs for Sherlock, he had to keep playing the game.

 

 Two weeks after Bill’s death, John phone rang with an unknown number.

 

 “John Watson.” he answered dully.

 

 “Doctor Watson? This… this is Maureen.  Maureen Murray.  Bill’s wife.”  Her voice sounded raw, no doubt from crying.

 

 “Of course.  Is everything okay?”

 

 “No.  Your friend, the something-detective one, he came to see me last week,”  John held his breath.  Why the hell would Sherlock have approached Maureen.  “He said, if anything out of the ordinary happened, I should call, but I lost the phone number he gave me.”

 

 “This one is fine.”  John’s brow creased further.  “What’s happened Maureen?  You sound panicked.”

 

 “It’s just..” the young woman let out a breathy sob, “I was out today, squaring things with the mortuary.  We’re having him cremated, his mum and I.  When I got home, my da was in the garden, he told me something about a big soldier fellow dropping by to give his condolences.  And he’d left a letter.”

 

 “A big soldier fellow?”  John’s throat began to close, in his mind’s eye he pictured Moran, a giant of a man.  “Read me the letter, Maureen.”

 

“I… yes.  Okay.” She took an anxious, shuddering breath.  John heard a slip of paper being unfolded.  “Ms. Murray, my name is Colonel Sebastian Moran.  Your husband and I served in the same unit in Afghanistan.  I’m sure you’ve been told some rakish tales, I assure you they are all true.

 Moreover, Ms. Murray, I am also aware of the details of your husband’s death.  All the details.  I am sorry to have to tell you Ms. Murray, the intent is for you to meet a similar end.  This is nothing against you, indeed it was barely against your husband.  I’m looking to play with an old friend.  Your deaths will be the catalyst that will bring him to me.”

 

 John wasn’t breathing.  He knew what this meant, Moran’s game was coming to a head.  “Maureen.  Nothing will happen to you.  I will call a friend of mine, a detective inspector at Scotland yard.  We’ll, set up a security detail.  I won’t let anything happen to you.”

 

 “It’s a boy you know.  We were going to name him John Thomas after you… and my father.  Bill said - he said if not for you, he’d probably have bled out agonizingly slow out there.”

 

 “A boy.  Bill would have been a great dad,  and he would have survived.  Bill is… was tough as nails.  I just patched him up.  He’s the one who saved me.”  John gnawed on his already raw and bleeding lips.  “Look Maureen, we’re going to everything we can to keep you safe. I promise.”

 

 “Thank you Doctor Watson.”

 

 “It’s just John, Maureen.  Call me John.”

 

 “Right.  Thank you.”

 

 John hung up the phone and dropped heavily into his armchair, mulling over the details of Moran’s note.  A call to play.  An address would have been nice.  John would have headed out that moment, Browning in hand - ready to pull the plug on  _ Colonel _ Sebastian Moran.  A clunking from the hallway signaled Sherlock’s return from Bart’s.

 

 “Tell me it’s not body parts.”  John pleaded.

 

 “Depends.”

 

 “On what?”

 

Sherlock stuck his head around the corner a mischievous look dancing across his face.  “On whether foetal pigs are considered a body part.”

 

 Too tired to argue the point with the man who was either manic or in an extremely good mood, John just nodded and stared at the mobile still in his hands.

 

 “John?  Is everyth…”

 

 “You went to Maureen.  Alone.”

 

 The smile left Sherlock’s face “Something happened.”  It wasn’t a question.

 

 “Another amazing deduction from the Great Sherlock Holmes.”  John spat angrily.  Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he knew he wasn’t angry at Sherlock.  Part of him hoped desperately Sherlock knew the same.  “Yes, Sherlock, something happened.  Moran made his way to Maureen’s family’s home.  Spoke to her father, left her a threatening note.”

 

 “Call her back!”  Sherlock scrambled to get to John as his mobile.  “CALL HER BACK!”

 

 “What is it?  What do you know?”

 

 “John, think about it, he’s going after people directly linked to you.  He’s laying in wait!  He left a note, no doubt to draw us out!  CALL.  HER.  BACK.  NOW!”

 

 John’s fingers fumbled as he made to unlock the phone and return Maureen’s call.  He found her number in the recent calls log, and dialed before putting it on speaker.

 

_ “You’ve reached the voicemail of Maureen Murray, I am unable to answer the phone right now, but leave a brief detailed message and I’ll get back to you soon.” _

 

 “Maureen, it’s John, call back immediately.”  He hung up and looked into Sherlock’s eyes.  The taller man strode forward tearing the phone from his hands and redialed.

 

_ “You’ve reached the voi..”   _ Sherlock hung up quickly, a look of panic replacing the cold glare in his eyes.  “We need to get there, now.”

 

**₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪₪**

 

The cab ride had been quiet, Sherlock and John stared anxiously out of their respective windows.  John’s mind going over Maureen’s voice reading that letter.  It hadn’t been an hour, and she wasn’t responding.

 In his heart he knew Sherlock was right, Moran laid low, waiting for Maureen to call him or Sherlock.  This is how the game would end. 

 

 “A’right lads, here we are.  Lit up like a christmas tree in there.  ‘avin’ a party?”

 

 John leapt out of the cab, leaving Sherlock to pay for a change.  He charged up to the door and reached out before he heard Sherlock cry out a warning.  “FINGERPRINTS!”  He was right, the last thing they needed was for this to come back to them.  Lestrade would know it wasn’t, but there were other events taking place that left.  

 

 Sherlock’s lanky arm reached around John, pushing the door open.  The scene was different from the others... John’s entire body clenched up, bile rising.

 

 Maureen’s father and mother were sat peacefully on the couch, the television on the news.  It would have seemed ordinary if not for the gaping wounds across their throats, blood pooling down their fronts.  Painted on a leather cushion nearby in their blood was a smiling face, not unlike Sherlock’s in the flat.  

 

 Sherlock himself stood directly behind him, as if waiting for the eventual collapse.

 

 “Maureen.”  The voice was not Sherlock’s, but it wasn’t John’s either.

 

 Sherlock looked down to him, his face molded into a look of great concern.  “We’ll find her.”

 

 “She’s dead too.”

 

 “Most likely.  I’m sorry John.”

 

The pair moved further into the house, clearing rooms until they came to the final door at the end of the hall.  Sherlock’s gloved hand pushed it open.  The sight made John double over, retching.

 

 Maureen Murray was flayed open on her bed.  A deep precise cut from sternum to pubis.  Her organs were carefully laid out as if on display, both arms lay across her chest, cradled within them lay the fetus.  Her child.  Too young to have survived even if he hadn’t been forcefully removed.

 

 “Jesus…  Sherlock.” 

 

“I’m calling Lestrade.”

 

 From his trouser pocket, John’s phone dinged with a text alert.

 

_ 821 Knox.  Come and play. _

 

 The message had been sent from Maureen’s phone.

 

John's heart beat wildly, his eyes looked over Maureen’s ravaged torso, and the corpse of a child who never would be born.  He looked to Sherlock, whose eyes showed something the doctor had never seen, a combination of intrigue and fear.

 

   Sherlock was afraid.  Of him.

 

John squared his shoulders and straightened his back, his hands instantly clenching into fists at his sides.   Tried and true, John shed the mild mannered Doctor, set his jaw, and took a distinctly military stance.

 

 "John?"  Sherlock all but whispered.

 

 "No."

 

 "Please don't."  Sherlock could see the rage boiling beneath the surface.  

 

Now John knew Moran’s end game, this would end.  Tonight.  One way or another, he would end it.

 

"I'm done letting him play.  I promised her, Sherlock.  I  _ promised  _ we would protect her.  I know where he is, I'm going.  Alone."

  
  
  
  
But first - John Watson needed his gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _OKAY KIDDOS!_
> 
> _That was tough to finish. Sayonara soft John, welcome back Captain Watson!_
> 
> _I want to thank everyone who continues to read. Seeing the hit counter jump every day makes my hear soar!_
> 
> _So here's a bit of news. The next couple of weeks I won't be posting. Nothing sinister, I assure you. But the surprise ending I'm working on is going to take a good bit of time._
> 
> _I hope you'll be back for the final postings! Love you all! (Also any grammatical or spelling errors PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know so I can fix them!)_


	16. UPDATE!!!

Hey my loves, I know it seems like I've abandoned you, but I wish to assure you that this is not the case.

Things just went to pot this last week. I had to get a new phone, and phone plan - which doesn't sound like a big deal, except for the fact that I'm having to work my arse off just to pay for it all. My MacBook charge cord has taken an exception to my more frequent use of the computer, and promptly decided to kick the bucket. None to pleased there, it's putting me off my work.   
And to add insult to injury, my car now needs a new catalytic converter, making it problematic for me to get to work to make the money required to pay for all this broken crap.  (Excuses, excuses)

There are lots of pages in my notebook ready to be typed up and edited, I've got myself a little help-mate for one scene, but this brings me to my bad news. I know I promised some Molstrade, but I think it's going to have to wait for the next fic, which is already swimming around my brain.

So I hope you're all still with me, and know that I love you!

~ Jo


	17. Boss Battles (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Please don't hate me too much. I'm getting there, I swear.  
> Love you ALL.  
> ~Jo

John's eyes fluttered open slowly, a familiar searing pain shot down his arm. 

_ A dream.  How could all of that been a dream? _

 

His eyes slowly began to adjust to the light. “Doctor Watson!” A surprised voice called from somewhere to his left.  “Welcome back to the world of the living.  You had us all worried. Especially your friend.”

 

“My friend?”

 

“Yes, Mister Holmes.  He's been quite the handful.  I'm Dr. Jones, by the way.”

 

John's heart was suddenly in his throat.  He wondered mildly how he could have thought he'd dreamt up Sherlock.   _ I'm hardly that creative. _

He turned his head and looked at the doctor who was now perusing his file.  “I'm sure you're interested in knowing your prognosis presently.  But let's begin with what you remember.”

 

John furrowed his brow thought.  There was no need to go into specifics with this woman, who knew what kind of classifications Mycroft had slapped on the event.  “I was shot.  Bit of a blur if I'm being honest."

 

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_ “Johnny boy.  Can't you come out to play?”  A rumbling voice called from the shadows.  His hands reached for the gun in its spot at the small of his back. _

 

_ “Play?  Is this all a game for you?” _

 

_ “Call it what you like, Watson.  I'd like to call it retaliation…  Revenge for my discharge.” _

 

_ “Your dishonorable discharge?  The discharge that is nobody's fault but your own.” _

 

_ “I WAS AN ASSET!  YOUR TESTIMONY RUINED ME!” _

 

_ John flicked the safety of and cocked the Browning as quietly as he could.  “And your bullet ruined me. I'd have thought us even.” _

 

_ A dark laugh reverberated through the mostly empty building. _

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“That is basically all the info I have here.  Looks like the damage done was mostly in old scar tissue, there a couple breaks to the clavicle.  Subclavian artery knicked, we gave you two units of O negative, donated but Mr. Holmes.  Thankfully the damage to the artery was minor enough that we were able to cauterize with minimal invasion.  While you were unconscious, there were signs of infection, we placed you on broad spectrum antibiotics.  You're on a fairly standard dose of morphine, now you're awake, well get you set up with a PCAP, so you can administer as needed.”

 

John's eyes had already begun to feel heavy again, a hated response to the _ standard dose _ of morphine.

“That'll be fine, thank you.  If Sherlock is still giving you grief, is fine to let him in.”

 

“He'll be glad to hear that, Doctor Watson.  I'll send him right in.”

 

“I'll try to keep my eyes open.”

 

It took too long for Sherlock to arrive, John fell back into darkness.

 

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_ The building was mostly devoid of items, except for a few boxes of supplies, and two stand-alone porcelain tubs. _

_ “Make me understand, Moran.  What was the point of killing all those people?” _

 

_ “Pest control, with some collateral damage thrown in.”  Moran’s tone was very matter-of-fact.  As if he really had just been pulling the wings of flies. _

 

_ John crept along the wall following the voice.  “Maureen Murray?  She had nothing to do with your discharge, and you sought her out…” _

 

_ “That,  _ Captain _ Watson, was my calling card.  None of the others had you seeking me out.” _

 

_ “An address might have been useful, if that was your aim.” _

 

_ “Don't be obtuse, Watson.  Couldn't leave any clues that your police friends would find before you.  But poor broken Johnny, couldn't follow the trail, even with his magic detective.  My employer has been so disappointed.  He expected so much more from the  _ exceptional _ Mr. Holmes.” _

  
  


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“John?  Are you awake?”  

 

John slowly opened his eyes and offered a smile to Sherlock, his lips cracking painfully from minute dehydration.

 

“Water?” The detective asked.  John nodded, the quick motion shooting tendrils of pain throughout his body.  Sherlock quickly grabbed the small grey-blue plastic cup and filled if from a similarly coloured pitcher.  He moved back and held a straw to John’s parched lips.

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

Thirst finally quenched, John made a noise signaling agreement, before opening his mouth to say, “I know.”

 

“You should never have gone alone.  I would have accompanied you.   For fuck’s sake, John… you might have died!”

 

“Didn’t.  Pretty sure.”  John tried to assure.  He noted his flatmate’s disheveled appearance.  His normal carefully arranged cules were in disarray, his eyes bloodshot, trousers wrinkled.  It was the appearance of a man who hadn’t been home in several days.  “How long have I been here?” he inquired.

 

“You’re heading into day five.”  Sherlock answered, running his fingers through his hair.

 

“And when did you last sleep?  Or eat, for that matter?”

 

“John…”  The detective’s eyes betrayed his desire to argue the point.

 

“No.  This didn’t kill me last time.  Pretty sure it won’t this time either.  You however need food and sleep.  You’re no good to anyone if you can’t focus.”

 

“My cognitive functions are just fine, John.  You however have been febrile, and unconscious for several days, and I…”  Sherlock stopped himself.  The tips of his ears turning a fair shade of pink.  He lowered his eyes to avoid John’s gaze.  An unreadable emotion passing over his features.

 

“Look,”  John was already losing the ability to keep his eyes open,  “I promise, if I kick it, I’ll have them call you.  Go home.  Shower, eat something,  _ get some sleep.   _ I can’t have a dozy detective holding me up.”

 

“John, please… just… don’t”  Sherlock’s mercurial eyes met his, brows pushed together indicating distress.  “I can’t sleep if I know you’re here, alone, and I have no idea what’s happening.  The only thing that I would wind up doing is sit there, wringing my hands, waiting for a phone call.  I can’t, John.  Please.”

 

Despite his mind being addled with drug and fever, something clicked for John.  Sherlock was begging.  He was scared to leave, to have John alone.   “Sherlock, what…”

 

“I am not leaving.”  The taller man declared with finality. 

 

“Okay.  Fine.  But I’m having a bit of trouble keeping my eyes open.  So do me a favor, and don’t harrass the nurses, or accidentally set my oxygen feed on fire.”

 

“I’m not an idiot, John.”

 

“Yes you are.  But you’re my idiot.”  John watched and Sherlock’s face flushed a light red, before closing his eyes and succumbing once more to sleep.


End file.
